Those Who Come After
by Kurt
Summary: FINISHED! COMPLETE! It's over! Lisa Starling faces off against Susana Alvarez Lecter again...but this time, there's more than meets the eye.
1. Takedown

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Author's note: Well, what can I say…Susana Alvarez Lecter and Lisa Starling were just too much fun to let them retire. So here we go. There'll be plenty of killing, oh yeah, but we're also going to try and delve into the minds of our heroines a bit too. But here we go, and it starts on a surprise note…

It was a tony area of town. Expensive townhouses, right near the beach and the Atlantic Ocean, sat casually behind the guardhouse separating the development from the rest of the world. Luxury cars were parked in the garages. It was a bright, sunny day, and the temperature hovered at ninety degrees. Outside, it seemed like a perfect day, the sort of day for the beach, Frisbees, and swimming. In the great square of the common area of the townhouse community, well-off children laughed and shrieked and played. Their parents watched dutifully from behind Ray-Ban sunglasses and Polo shirts. 

Inside the van, however, it was simply hot and stuffy. A large block of dry ice puffed steam and vapor that seemed vaguely threatening. It was all that served to keep the temperature at merely uncomfortable down from stifling. The six people inside the van were focused on a particular townhouse. 

Lisa Starling, Special Agent of the FBI, sat calmly in the van. She had a headache. The air in the van was hot and dry, enough to drive someone mad rather quickly. They had been in the van for hours. She peered through a periscope that was attached to the van's roof vent. The glare off the freshly laid black asphalt reflected back into the periscope and made her eyes throb. A thin sheen of sweat coated her upper face. The skin around her eyes was hot where the rubber eyepiece of the periscope made contact with her skin. She scowled in displeasure. Using the periscope always made her feel a bit like Captain Nemo. Plus the rubber was hot and made the flesh around her eyes sweat.

_Honestly, _she thought, _I thought I'd put in my time here. _Lisa worked at Quantico, in Behavioral Sciences. She was a profiler, not a street agent. She had already done the street-arrest thing. The last time she'd done it she'd been injured. For a moment, she wondered if she ought to be here: if the few years down in the air-conditioned comfort of Quantico had made her weak. Still, there was a reason she was here, and she couldn't help but admit that she was excited to be part of this collar. 

And she'd worked for it. They had scanty intel, but Lisa had finally pinpointed their target here. Everything was right – the money, the class, all the best. Now came sweet vindication. Maybe another salary grade, God knew she could use it. When Quincy had called her into his office and sent her down to be on the arrest team, she had been pleased and delighted. Too bad he didn't mention that it meant spending hours in a ninety-degree van with five other people. 

She pulled her head away from the periscope and rubbed her eyes tiredly. She grabbed the thin material of her T-shirt and pulled it away from her sweaty body, trying vainly to wave away from of the heat. She had already shed as much clothing as modesty would allow. If she had to stay in here much further, she thought, her standards of modesty were about to take a radical change. 

There was a bottle of mineral water balanced between her thighs and she grabbed it. The insufferable heat in the van had rendered it unpleasantly warm, but she drank thirstily from it anyway. It was good on her parched tongue. She swished it around in her mouth to try and wet it down and then swallowed it. 

"I think that's her," the agent sitting behind the wheel said. Lisa sat up and manned the periscope again. Sure enough, there was a car approaching the townhouse. A black Jaguar XJ-6, gleaming in the bright sunlight. It pulled up in front of the townhouse. Lisa tensed and reached for the Glock on her belt. Although it had swiftly become a misery of hot metal against her hip, she'd kept it on all this time. She focused the periscope on the car, trying to keep it low enough so it wouldn't be noticed. 

The door to the Jaguar opened. A foot in an elegant, high-heeled shoe came out and planted itself firmly on the pavement. The woman whose foot it was unfolded herself from the Jag and closed the door. She wore an elegant but light dress that swirled around her ankles. The Jaguar's door closed silently. She pulled her dark black hair away from the nape of her neck and strode towards the door of the townhouse. With one hand, she fumbled for her keys in the black Coach purse hung over her shoulder. Lisa felt a wire of tension wrap twice around her gut and press in. Unconsciously, she touched the top of her chest. Under her fingers, separated only by the thin cotton of her T-shirt was an old, faded scar. A bullet wound. 

"That's her," the agent said. Another agent next to Lisa opened the sliding door to the van. It was showtime. 

Six agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation jumped out of the van. They covered the hundred yards between the van and the woman in record time. The woman turned, her eyes widening and her hand diving deeper into the purse. 

The agents were upon the woman quickly. In a manner that was both quick and brutal, they forced her to the ground. Four agents grabbed their assigned limb and held her down. A fifth squatted by her back and helped to hold her down. The woman's purse was knocked from her hand and thrown several feet away. Lisa ran up from her position at the end of the line, her left hand clutching her handcuffs. The agent holding the woman's right hand forced it over to where Lisa could get it, and she locked one cuff around it. Then the agent holding the woman's left arm did the same, and Lisa did it again. All very quick, sanitary, and neat. 

Their prey cuffed, the agents allowed her to stand up. She held her shoulders back and her head up imperiously, dignified despite her shackles. She said nothing. Lisa strode around to face the woman. She stared wordlessly into her eyes for a few moments. The hair was different, along with the eyes, but that was basic – hair dye and contact lenses. But the face was the same, the face that had haunted Lisa's dreams for the past few years. Lisa flipped open the leather case containing her ID.

"Lisa Starling, FBI," she told the woman. "You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have that attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you at no cost."

The woman stared back at her. Her lips quirked in an ironic smile, as if this was all very amusing, 

"Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?" Lisa asked. Her superiors had made it quite obvious to her: this arrest was to go by the book. Previous attempts had gone horribly wrong, and they did not want any technicalities for their target to wiggle through. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter smiled again and shook her head to keep her dyed hair out of her face. 

"Why, Cousin Lisa," she said calmly. "How nice to see you. You could have called, you know. And yes, Lisa, I do understand my _rahts_." 

Lisa smiled back coldly. She allowed herself one deviation from procedure. 

"I suppose I could have," she allowed, "but I like the personal touch sometimes." Her face hardened and she adopted the mien of the by-the-book FBI agent again. She adjusted her sweaty T-shirt and drew herself up proudly.

"Susana Alvarez," she said coolly, "you are under arrest. The charge is seventeen counts of murder of a federal officer." 


	2. From Bad to Worse

The Alexandria Detention Center was a reasonably modern jail. It lay in suburban Virginia, not far from the Pentagon and a few blocks from the federal courthouse. Although a county facility, it had a contract with the federal government to house federal prisoners. The convenience and security it offered could not easily be denied. The Alexandria Detention Center had held high-security, high-profile prisoners before. They were up to the task of holding Susana Alvarez during her trial. 

It is a common misconception that murder is not a federal crime. This is not true: murder has been a violation of 18 USC 1111 since 1988. Although usually the federal government will defer to the states, it does not always do so, and it did not in the case of Susana Alvarez Lecter. For a few years before, Susana had blown up a building, killing almost the entire Hostage Rescue Team of the FBI, along with those men and women of Behavioral Sciences who had come along for the collar. That accounted for sixteen of the seventeen charges against her. The seventeenth was for the murder of Deputy Chief Peter DeGraff. Susana had not killed him at the factory she had killed the others in. Instead, she had kidnapped him and driven him to his home. There, with her cousin as a captive dinner guest, she had fried DeGraff's intestines and served them as dinner. 

The _National Tattler _featured her on its front page and gleefully reminded its readers that not only had it detailed all the crimes of her father, it had also published articles about her a few years back, when Lisa Starling was first on the case. The _Tattler _was unable to secure an interview with Lisa Starling despite its best efforts. It was not known whether Lisa would testify against her cousin.

Susana Alvarez Lecter was confined in administrative segregation on the women's cellblock of the jail. Replacing the expensive townhouse was an 80 square foot cell, containing merely a shelf, a bed, a sink and a toilet. Her cell did offer one amenity that her father had once been willing to trade the life of Catherine Baker Martin for: a small window. The cell opened onto a larger dayroom where other inmates were allowed to congregate. Susana was not, however; she was deemed a security risk. Every fifteen minutes, someone would check her through the small viewing window on the steel door of her cell. 

In charge of Susana's cellblock was Lieutenant Kelly McNeely. Lt. McNeely oversaw the women's section of the jail. She wasn't terribly happy about her new charge. Most female inmates under her care were charged with non-violent offenses. Drug charges were the most common: probably one out of three. Unlike the men in the other sections of the jail, most of her inmates were more likely to employ tears rather than force to get what they wanted. Every single working day provided Kelly McNeely with at least one crying inmate. Usually more. At times, it seemed to Lt. McNeely that she ran a day care center for adults. 

So into this tiny, insular world of the cellblock came Susana Alvarez, who was as far from the usual inmate as one could get. Whereas most of the cellblock's inhabitants were not violent, Susana was capable of the same heights of violence and horror as her father. She shared his civility and politeness as well, which was fortunate. Lt. McNeely had taken the time to investigate both Susana's crimes and her father's, and she was determined that there would be no nurse incident on her cellblock. It had been two months since Susana had been brought here, and things had settled down into a sort of calm. Susana wasn't a difficult prisoner, and eschewed tears or histrionics to get what she wanted. That tended to dispose Lt. McNeely favorably towards her. She did possess a slew of attorneys, but handled any legal issues with her jailers on a professional basis. 

So far, things had settled down into a routine. Susana was kept locked down in her cell, as was normal for high-security prisoners. She was allowed two hours a day out of it for exercise and phone calls. This was a great deal more than her father had once been permitted, but he had been a patient in a criminal asylum, not a federal prisoner. As well, the years that had passed since Dr. Lecter's incarceration had granted more rights to those in prison. 

The lieutenant was not completely unsympathetic to her uncommon prisoner, and she knew from previous experience that high-security prisoners could often lose their minds through the sheer mindless tedium of lockdown. Lt. McNeely was scrupulous in observing the rights and privileges that Susana was allowed. Books, phone calls, commissary – small things to a free person, but of greater importance to the incarcerated. Behind it all were the simple, unlovely facts of penology: that even these small privileges were dependent on Susana's behavior. So far, she had not needed to discipline her most dangerous inmate. That was good: privately, Lt. McNeely wanted to avoid it if it was humanly possible to do so. For counterpointing the facts of penology was another unlovely fact that never left Lieutenant Kelly McNeely's mind: a Susana Alvarez Lecter without _any _incentive to behave was not something she wanted to think about. 

At first, Susana had simply ignored Lt. McNeely unless it was time for her to be let out of her cell. After a few weeks of stony silence, she had exchanged simple pleasantries with her through the tray slot of the cell door. From there, they had gone into deeper discussions. Susana was too canny to avoid discussing anything incriminating with her keeper, but there were plenty of other things to discuss. Medicine, surgery, philosophy, genetics, and science. Susana knew a great deal about all of it. Despite herself, Lt. McNeely began to look forward to the occasional discussions, held after lights-out before she called it a night. 

But it was all routine, and the lieutenant liked it that way. Things ran smoothly: her most dangerous prisoner was cooperative. The unit ran relatively smoothly. No one got their jaw broken or their tongue eaten. Lt. McNeely's carrot-and-stick combination seemed to work on Susana as well as the more common inmates. And things were calm for a while. 

Lt. McNeely's radio buzzed. It was the front office, informing her that a visitor up front awaited. She knew what this was about and sighed. The front office was not that far away from the cellblock, but there were plenty of gates and doors in between. Made getting there a pain. But she soldiered on gamely enough through the maze of bars and reached the front office. 

The office itself could have been a waiting room in any large doctor's office or other business. Nothing in the room suggested that people were locked in small cells not one hundred yards away. Lt. McNeely adjusted her belt and arranged her red hair under her uniform cap as she glanced around. The receptionist wordlessly pointed at a blonde woman sitting in a waiting-room chair. The woman stood, arranging the skirt of her smart suit. A badge labeled _Visitor_ hung from her lapel. She extended a hand. 

"Lieutenant McNeely?" she asked. "I'm Special Agent Lisa Starling. We spoke on the phone." 

Lieutenant McNeely though back to a few days ago, when the FBI agent had called her. She nodded. "Yes. I remember. You're here to see Susana Alvarez." 

Lisa nodded. She seemed tense. This wasn't unusual in first-time visitors to the prison: by their nature, prisons tend to make people uncomfortable, even when they are not confined in them. Then again, Lieutenant McNeely thought, it was probably hard to be an FBI agent when your cousin was a dangerous serial killer. 

"Yes," Lisa affirmed. "I called the jail, too, before. I'd like to know if I could give her this." She reached into her briefcase and removed a plastic bag. From it, she extracted a small Walkman-style radio. "They said that prisoners were allowed to have it, but I'm not sure if she is." 

Lt. McNeely considered. Ad-seg prisoners weren't supposed to have radios, but Susana had behaved well enough and she was willing to indulge her uncommon charge. It would make the strict terms of Susana's confinement easier to bear. Knowing what she knew about Susana, that might save the lives of one or more of her staff. Finally, she nodded. 

"All right," she said. "But leave the box and the bag here. Just the radio. And I'll give it to her. Come with me." 

As they proceeded through the jail, Lisa felt nervous. The _clang_ of barred gates closing behind her made her nervous. Lt. McNeely briefed her as they walked. 

"So far," she said, "Susana has been pretty well behaved, we haven't had any major problems with her. We keep her segregated from the other inmates. Normally, we do visits in a non-contact basis, through phones and a partition. You may need to wait for those. There's also a room we have inmates meet with their lawyers in, and if you want, you can visit her there." She gave the FBI agent a questioning look. 

Lisa realized that the jailer meant to ask if she was amenable to being in the very same room with Susana Alvarez Lecter with nothing but air between the two women and trembled. But wait, no, they would make some sort of arrangements to keep her safe. And besides, she knew Susana would not kill her. 

"That'll be fine," she said. 

"OK, then. A few ground rules. Do not try to touch her and don't let her touch you. You can give her anything on soft paper. No staples, no paperclip, no pens, nothing else. Do not accept anything she tries to give you. If she has something she wants to give you, she does that through us. And she knows that."

Lisa nodded. 

"This is not totally regulation," the lieutenant added. "The rules say any ad-seg inmate gets only non-contact visits. I'm doing this as a favor, since you're FBI and…well…family." 

Lisa nodded again and smiled tightly. "Yes. Thank you. I appreciate that." 

"What I mean is don't go back and file a report saying I let you do this." 

"Of course not," Lisa answered. "I was wondering…would it be possible for me to see her cell?" 

Lt. McNeely shook her head. "No. No visitors in the inmate pods. Too unsafe." She neglected to mention that the only real danger was Susana Alvarez herself. Lisa Starling could fend off most of the other inmates by simply yelling at them. "Why do you want to see her cell?" 

"To see what's there," Lisa hedged. Then, realizing that was only drawing a quizzical stare, she elaborated. "To see how she has things arranged. See if she's drawing anything. If so, what she's drawing. That sort of thing gives us some insight into what she's thinking."

Lt. McNeely rounded on Lisa then and stood in the middle of the concrete hallway. 

"OK, wait a minute," she said. "Don't try to tell me you're doing this for the FBI. I know you're not. She hasn't gone to trial yet and her lawyers would have a field day with that if you were. People try to con me every single day, Starling." 

Lisa sighed. "No…wait…that's not what I meant." She shook her head and looked vaguely guilty. Lt. McNeely, who heard those words at least five times a day, looked on unconvinced. 

"I'm not here as part of anything official," Lisa admitted. "Just as her cousin. And I…well…I have some bad news for her." 

Lt. McNeely's ears pricked up and her head tilted, not unlike her prisoner. Her tone lost any jocularity. "All right," she said. "Tell me now, that way I know what to expect." 

Quietly, Lisa told her as they started back down the hall. 

Lt. McNeely took off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair. "Great," she said. "Just what I need." 

"It's not--," Lisa started. 

"I know, it's not your fault." The final gate opened and she escorted Lisa to a small, barren little room. A scarred table and two chairs were all that was there. The door to the room was barred. Lisa realized that they meant to lock her in with Susana Alvarez Lecter and trembled involuntarily. 

"Have a seat," the lieutenant said calmly. "We have to go get her. She doesn't know you're coming. It'll be a bit." 

Lisa sat and waited nervously. Lieutenant McNeely turned and stalked down the hall. Lisa's news was not a good thing. It would upset the routine. But she couldn't exactly forbid Lisa from telling her cousin the truth. As she headed down the corridor to Susana's cell, she rounded up some guards in order to give her the benefit of numbers. Susana Alvarez hadn't done anything yet, but there was little sense in taking chances. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter's cell was at the end of the cellblock, and there were no inmates either the cell adjoining hers or the cell across the hall. Normally, there were no other inmates down in that corner. This time, there was. Lieutenant McNeely recognized another of her federal inmates, Ana Castillo, squatting down by Susana's door and whispering through the tray slot. Lt. McNeely sighed. Castillo was perfect prey for Susana: barely nineteen years old, small, and barely spoke English. She was one of McNeely's champion weepers. She thought her guards might show her some sympathy because she was small, nonviolent, and easy to control. In that, she had been largely correct. She had also thought she could smuggle a large amount of cocaine taped to her body into the country, but she had been mistaken on that score. 

"Castillo," she said sharply. The woman looked up with wide eyes. 

"Castillo, you don't belong down here. Leave her alone." 

"Yes, ma'am," Castillo said in a voice that sounded like a Guatemalan Betty Boop. Tears welled in her eyes. McNeely fought the urge to roll hers. _Crying. Here we go again. Oh my God, more crying. _Her voice was gentler when she spoke again. 

"She's in ad seg, Castillo. We keep her separated. She's dangerous. Leave her alone and she'll leave you alone." 

"Yes, ma'am," Castillo repeated. She took a step forward as if to flee, then looked at the four correctional officers and halted. 

"Scat," McNeely said, and Castillo scatted, at least fifteen feet or so down the hall where she turned and watched them prepare to open the monster's cell. She watched them with wide eyes, looking like a little girl watching the zookeepers enter the tiger's cage. 

Lt. McNeely stood in front of the heavy steel door that was all that separated her from Susana Alvarez Lecter. She could see a silhouette inside the cell, seated on the bunk. Although she had to do this every day, it never got any easier. Every time she did this, she always had to wonder. Was this going to be the time Susana had outthought her? The pictures of the nurse Dr. Lecter had attacked all those years ago were available on the Internet, and Lt. McNeely did not intend her picture to follow suit.

She took her radio and told the picket officer to open Susana's cell. With a mechanical buzz and a click, the door swung open. Lt. McNeely took a deep breath and stepped forward into the monster's lair. The other guards flanked her and waited. 

Susana sat cross-legged on her bunk, watching the lieutenant calmly. Her maroon eyes were placid as she watched the woman in front of her. She had heard them coming – four guards made enough racket that they couldn't possibly hope to sneak up on anyone – and had simply retreated to her bunk. She seemed vaguely like a lioness about to spring on her prey, even though she had not acted violently during her incarceration.

"You're early," Susana Alvarez Lecter said calmly. 

Lt. McNeely let out a slow, measured breath. "You have a visitor. Cuff up." 

Slowly, languidly, Susana got off her bunk and stood. She took an opportunity to stretch before facing the far wall and compliantly placing her hands behind her back. Lt. McNeely put the cuffs on her and took out a leather belt, fastening it around Susana's waist. 

"If it's another _Tattler _reporter, I'm not interested," Susana said blandly, as if McNeely was her social secretary instead of her jailer. 

"It isn't," McNeely said calmly. "By the way, want to tell me what you were doing with Castillo?" 

Even though she couldn't see Susana's face, Lt. McNeely knew she was amused. "Talking," Susana said calmly. 

"She's not supposed to talk to you, and you're not supposed to talk to her," the lieutenant reminded her. "You know the rules." 

"I suppose," Susana allowed. "But the poor dear hardly speaks English, and there aren't many Spanish-speaking inmates she can speak _to_." 

"She can speak English and it isn't your problem anyway," McNeely riposted, kneeling to attach the leg irons. The other guards stood ready to enter the cell. If there was going to be a problem, now would be the time. Everyone except Susana tensed. 

"She knows a few English phrases, less even than a phrasebook." Susana observed. Her voice took on pedantic tones not unlike her father's. "She knows that if she smiles and says 'Yes, ma'am', that will get her through most situations. If you asked her what her favorite color was she couldn't possibly answer you. You haven't noticed because she isn't a discipline problem and so you have no reason to pay any real attention to her. Haven't you noticed that any time she wants something complicated she seeks out Officer Martinez?" Susana chuckled. "But she sought me out because she wanted someone to talk to. She's lonely and scared and only half understands what's going on. And her public defender is Anglo, they've probably passed twelve words together and she might have understood two. The poor thing." She shook her head in mock sympathy. 

Lieutenant Kelly McNeely realized that her caged killer had just essentially accused her of ignoring an inmate who couldn't understand them and gritted her teeth. _Don't let her get under your skin, _she counseled herself. She double-locked the ankle chains and took her prisoner's upper arm. 

"We'll take care of it," she said briskly. "Now, come on. Back out of the cell. Slowly." 

Susana's restraints assured that fairly well, and she left the cell without fuss. Ana Castillo was still down the hall, watching and waiting. Again, Lt. McNeely was reminded of a little girl at the circus, fascinated by the tiger. She stood in front of Susana along with another guard flanking her. Two more stood behind her. 

"Castillo, I said get out of here," McNeely said, trying to sound stern. "You're not supposed to talk to her. We've got to move her now. Go to the dayroom or I'll write you up." 

"_Dice que tienes que ir. No se permite hablar conmigo. Necesitan movarme. Vaya al cuarto de dìa o ella te escribarà un billete,_" Susana Alvarez Lecter said helpfully. 

Lieutenant McNeely turned around and gave her prisoner a short look. Susana met her eyes easily, unafraid. Even chained and surrounded by four armed guards, she seemed to be amused by it all. 

"She doesn't understand you," Susana said simply. She shrugged in her restraints. 

"Just come on," McNeely said, and led her prisoner down to the visiting room. When Susana saw Lisa, her eyes widened just a bit. She sat down when Lt. McNeely told her to and sat passively as the lieutenant ran the chain between Susana's handcuffs and belt through a ring on the table. Lisa eyed her cousin uncomfortably, squirming a bit under the steady gaze from those maroon eyes. Susana did not speak until Kelly McNeely had left the room and closed the door, watching carefully through a glass partition. 

"What a surprise," Susana Alvarez Lecter said conversationally. "Thank you for coming, Lisa." 

Lisa Starling observed her cousin carefully. Susana looked worse after her time in jail: she was noticeably paler and looked thinner. She doubted someone of Susana's tastes would care for jail food. 

"Hello, Susana. How are you doing?" Lisa asked stiffly.

Susana shrugged and rocked her hand back and forth in a _comme ci, comme ca _gesture. "About as well as can be expected. This jail food is awful, it gives me a stomachache. You'd have thought I'd have gotten used to it by now, but there you go. How about yourself, Lisa? How's life in the FBI treating you? I should think it would be better now that there's no more DeGraff to get in your way." 

"Just fine, Susana," Lisa said tightly. 

Susana tilted her head and watched the other woman with interest. "Why come all this way if you're just going to be distant?" she asked. "Or have you come to gloat?" Her voice held a hint of bitterness, and Lisa started: she had never heard such a thing in Susana's voice before. "Come to vaunt your profiling prowess? Crow about how you caught me?" 

Lisa shook her head. "No. I came here to see you, crazy as that sounds."

"I see. They're planning to kill me, you know." 

Lisa had seen the newscast in which the USDA had announced that he would seek the death penalty for Susana Alvarez Lecter. 

"I know," Lisa said carefully. 

"How does that make you feel, Lisa? Happy and contented? Sated? Satisfied that your masters' baying for my blood will be answered at long last?" 

Lisa sighed and shook her head. "You haven't been found guilty yet, you know," she pointed out. "Let alone sentenced. And you've got an attorney." 

Susana chuckled cynically. "You're so naïve sometimes, Lisa Lee Starling," she said. "You and I both know what the outcome of this trial will be." 

Lisa shrugged. "Talk to your attorney. See if they'll plea bargain." 

Susana snorted and shook her head. "They won't and I don't want to rot in prison for the rest of my life anyway." Her chains clinked as she leaned forward. "So do you feel victorious, Lisa? Are you happy with what you have accomplished? Will you cheer when they finally put me in the death chamber? Cheer along with your fellow agents of the F…B…I?" 

Lisa took a deep breath. Even in chains and incarcerated, her cousin still intimidated her. 

"That's not my department, Susana," she said as calmly as she could. "And I'm not here as an FBI agent. I'm here as your cousin." 

Susana Alvarez Lecter tilted her head curiously at her cousin. 

"I have some bad news, and I thought you would appreciate hearing it from me," Lisa said softly.

Susana's head tilted a bit further. Her face opened just a bit. She visibly steeled herself. 

"All right," Susana said cautiously. "I appreciate that,…what is it?" 

Lisa closed her eyes, swallowed and took a deep breath through her nose. She wondered just what part of her had forced her to come here to this house of misery and see her malevolent cousin. But here she was, and she had to tell her, even though she did not know what would happen. 

"It's your mother," Lisa said, and promptly hated herself for temporizing. Best to get it out and hope Susana would not react violently.

"Your mother passed away last night, Susana." 

A look of shock and pain came over Susana Alvarez Lecter's face. She looked more recognizably human to Lisa at that moment than she ever had before. Her mouth opened and then closed. Her handcuffs clinked. She looked at that moment exactly like what she was: a woman in a high-security jail facing a death sentence who was now all alone in this world.

"I'm very sorry," Lisa said softly.


	3. Rock Bottom

Lisa Starling walked from the jail and walked out to her car. An observer might have noticed that her stride was strained, the way a person walks when she is trying to keep herself from running. The Trans Am was a comforting cocoon, the padded seat a wealth of comfort compared to the heavy wooden chairs and concrete walls of the jail. She took a deep breath.

Lisa rested her hands on the leather-wrapped steering wheel and closed her eyes. Her pulse was racing. Her mind was whirling. She didn't know what to think. It occurred to her what she had just done: gone to see a woman who had murdered her friends and co-workers. Why? What on God's green earth did she owe Susana Alvarez? 

The answer to the question was tangled into a knot that would make the Gordians jealous. The first skein in the knot was simply sympathy: Susana had lost her mother now. She was facing her trials alone. Lisa was really all she had as far as blood relatives went. Lisa knew her cousin would probably require close custody arrangements for her entire life, but she could not bring herself to abandon Susana entirely, no more than she could have abandoned Peter DeGraff when Susana kidnapped him. 

The second skein was the inverse of the first. Lisa had never been in jail herself, and could not imagine what her cousin must be going through. Losing her mother, however, was something Lisa knew all about. In the intervening year since she had last met with her cousin, Lisa's own mother had passed on after a short, painful fight with cancer. It was inescapable: Special Agent Lisa Starling's only living relative was Susana Alvarez Lecter. Without her cousin, she was entirely alone. 

The third and most confusing was her knowledge of her cousin. Lisa had thrown herself into trying to study Susana just as her first cousin had once studied Susana's father. Lisa was, in fact, the best resource any law enforcement agency had on Hannibal Lecter's daughter. She knew where Susana had gone to school – high school, college, medical school. She knew Susana's tastes. She had copies of every bit of evidence any police agency had ever found on her. Receipts, crime scene photos, weapons. She knew that Susana had been briefly held captive at sixteen by an Argentine killer named the Skinner, and the profiler in her would have given her eyeteeth to discuss _that_. All worthless now that Susana was in custody, but it had meaning to her. 

And this in turn led to the fourth. Lisa Starling owed her life to Susana Alvarez. There was no doubt that Susana had done some horrible things, and done them solely because she enjoyed them. She had even done them to Lisa: forcing her to eat DeGraff's intestines, inserting a cardiac catheter into her chest to control her. But none of that could quite negate the fact that Susana had pulled Ardelia Mapp's bullet from Lisa's chest. Susana could have killed her them, or simply left her. But she hadn't. It was hard to get over the fact that she, a special agent of the FBI, owed her life to a dangerous killer like Susana Alvarez, but there it was. 

Lisa knew that visiting her cousin wasn't the brightest career move. She was considered to be the _bete noire _of the FBI: the popular opinion was that Susana should either be taken out back and shot or preferably tortured to death. Lisa had dealt with the stigma that came with bearing the last name of Susana's mother for her entire career: the fact that Starling blood ran in the veins of the FBI's most hated enemy had not helped, either. If not for the fact that she was already at Quantico and had a sterling record, she would have ended up in Alaska, most likely. Most people in her position would have simply turned away from her cousin, kept her head down, and hoped for the best. 

But Lisa was not most people. Like Clarice before her, she believed in the oath she had taken, and took it a step further. Her duty was to keep order, to protect. To save the lambs, Clarice might have said. Free, Susana would prey on the lambs; in jail, she _was _one, much as her father had been subject to Chilton's petty torments. Lisa Starling could not turn her back on her cousin without some ethical qualms. Some might view it as weakness, but to Lisa it was a strength. It is all well and good to have principles, but the truest test of those principles is when complying with them costs you personally. 

Lisa Starling let out a long sigh. She started her engine and headed back to Quantico. 

…

Lt. McNeely did not much care for her prisoner's behavior after the visit. It wasn't entirely Susana's fault, and the lieutenant realized that. Nor was Susana's behavior a violation of the rules, strictly speaking. Lisa Starling's news had not boded well. Shortly after she had told her cousin, Susana had called the lieutenant in and asked to be taken back to her cell. 

During the two months of Susana's confinement, Lt. McNeely had never seen her in anything other than a state of complete control. To some extent, this had been welcome. Lt. McNeely had dealt with much more tears and tantrums than she would have liked. Susana's equanimity was a welcome break. But when she had been taken from the visiting room, she did not speak a word, and her mouth had trembled noticeably as she was escorted back to her cell. She did not cry, but she wouldn't talk either. Silently, the entourage had returned her to her cell. 

She had accepted the radio with a muttered thank you completely unlike her, her head down. Once locked in, she had simply sat on her bunk, facing away from the door, brooding like a raven. Kelly McNeely was not quite sure what to do: the Academy had neglected to teach her much about dealing with a depressed sociopath. So far, she allowed, nothing that was a violation. But everyone has his or her limits, and Lt. McNeely had to wonder if the news of her mother's death had overshot Susana Alvarez Lecter's. 

But she knew her duties, and so she tried. Standard procedure was to try and get someone from the jail ministry to talk to a prisoner who'd just gotten bad news. She knew before she tried that Susana would not be interested in talking to a jail minister, but she wasn't about to leave Susana to brood in her cell. That was partially sympathy and partially good correctional management: she had to let Susana out of her cell eventually, and it would be better for all involved if Susana was coping. Besides, the typical ad-seg inmate would have jumped at the chance to talk to someone, anyone, just to break the mindless boredom. 

But Susana was not typical. The first three people Lt. McNeely rounded up simply stood at the door to Susana's cell, trying to get her attention. She refused to talk to them or even acknowledge their presence. The lieutenant did not know that Susana had retreated to her memory palace, where she was reading _The Count of Monte Cristo_ and Chekhov's _The Bet_, tales that resonated with her these days. Nor did she know what else Susana was doing or what was on her mind. 

The fourth person, a thin, cadaverous man she barely knew, managed to actually gain acknowledgement from Susana and managed to keep her talking for all of fifteen minutes. Lt. McNeely did not know exactly what had happened, but she saw him leaving the cellblock slumped in defeat, shaking his head. She cornered him as he left. 

"Any luck?" she asked hopefully. 

The man sighed mournfully. "She talked to me for a bit," he said, "but when I offered her a Bible she said she was putting out better books than that." 

Lt. McNeely sighed. "So no luck." 

"Unfortunately, no. But I'll pray for her." 

Kelly McNeely was tempted to point out what a fat lot of good that would do, but this man was only trying to help. "I'm sorry," she said. 

"There are none so blind as those who will not see, Lieutenant," the man said, and turned to leave. She watched him depart the cellblock and sighed. She hadn't expected the jail ministers to do much anyway, but striking out still bugged her. 

She glanced into the dayroom, where a gaggle of inmates were gathered around the TV watching soap operas. Ana Castillo was among them, rapt in the pictures flickering across the screen. McNeely eyed her and considered. Susana had at least talked to her, but she would need to be closely watched. The image of tiny Ana slowly being pulled through the narrow tray slot of Susana's cell door arose in her mind, like something out of a grade-B horror flick. But no, wait, Susana had seemed to take pity on her. "Castillo," she said. "Over here. Now." 

Ana Castillo could understand enough English to understand her own name pronounced American-style, and she knew what _over here_ and _now_ meant. With big, wide eyes she approached the cellblock's queen. She smiled uncertainly. 

"Yes, ma'am?" Ana said politely. 

"Castillo, I want you to try talking to Susana again," Lt. McNeely told her. "Quietly." 

"Yes, ma'am," Ana said, and turned to leave. Heading the wrong way. Lt. McNeely sighed and took her arm. 

"No…there. Go talk to Susana Alvarez. Like you did before. When I told you not to," she said. 

Ana eyed her nervously for a moment. Her smile faltered. "Eh…no, ma'am?" she said, more a query than an answer. 

"Did you hear me?" Lt. McNeely asked. 

"Yes, ma'am," came the expected response. 

Kelly McNeely sighed. Then she smiled brightly at Ana. When she spoke again her voice was bright and cheery, like the kindergarten teacher she often found herself being. Ana smiled back tentatively.

"Ana, would you like it if a few of the other guards and I beat you with batons and pepper-sprayed you?" A few inmates craned their necks when they heard that. Kelly ignored them for the time being. 

"Yes, ma'am," Ana chirped, smile bright as ever. 

Lt. McNeely didn't know whether to laugh or be annoyed. Susana had been correct. She didn't know English at all. _How long has she been here? Four months? And no one noticed this? _ She took the younger woman's arm and led her down the hall. As they neared Susana's cell and Ana realized where they were going, she stopped. 

"No," she said, the _o _clipped, but perfectly understandable. "_No se permite. No quiero billete." _

McNeely closed her eyes and counted mentally to 10. Her one Spanish-speaking CO wasn't on duty until three. "Permite," she said. "I permite. I don't know, just go do it, will you? No…no disciplinario." What was the word she had used? Now she had it. "_No billete." _

"No billete?" Ana looked unconvinced, but trudged a few unwilling steps forward, looking for all the world like a little girl forced to eat her vegetables. She gave McNeely a look that suggested she was being thrown into the lion's den for no wrongdoing of her own and stopped hesitantly at the door. 

_Oh, go on and do it, you had no problem doing it when I didn't want you to, _Kelly McNeely thought exasperatedly. 

Ana bent and opened the food slot of Susana's cell. She whispered inside conspiratorially. Lt. McNeely watched and waited. She could hear Susana's voice float back through the slot, two or three short, clipped sentences. Then she fell silent, despite Ana's attempts to restart the conversation. Whatever she had said rattled the young drug mule: Ana called her name several times and banged on the door in frustration before giving up. She walked back long-faced, failure written large across her face in any language. 

"_No habla conmigo,_" she said mournfully. Lt. McNeely didn't need a dictionary to figure out what she meant. She watched Ana open her mouth and close it again and bounce from foot to foot. She seemed agitated and frustrated. Finally, Ana released a flood of Spanish. Lt. McNeely sighed. 

"I can't understand you," she said. "Officer Hernandez will be on duty soon, you can ask her." 

"Officer Hernandez, _si," _Ana said. 

"Not here. Soon. Three o'clock. _Tres." _Kelly tossed around the idea of calling up to the men's block and seeing if they had a Spanish speaker. Ana seemed rattled enough. 

Ana babbled something more. Lt. McNeely sighed and spoke soothingly.

"I can't understand you, Ana. Officer Hernandez will be here soon, and, --" 

"No, no, no," Ana said and grabbed the lieutenant's sleeve. Normally, this was strictly forbidden. But Kelly McNeely could have shot-putted Ana with one hand if so she chose, so she let it slide. Ana tried to lead her over to the picket. There, Ana pointed at some forms on the inside. 

"You want a grievance form?" Lt. McNeely asked calmly. 

Ana nodded. 

Lt. McNeely was slightly put off by this: grievances were prisoner complaints, and she didn't think it was right that Ana file a grievance on her. But she entered the picket and gave the chattering woman the form anyway. Ana scurried into the dayroom with the form and sought out another inmate. 

_Well, that was random, but it doesn't really help me too much, _Lt. McNeely thought. She entered the picket and briefed her officers on the news. She checked her watch. Two through four was Susana's time out of her cell, and it was one-thirty. She would try to get her talking then, she decided. She checked over the reports of the day and tried to think about something else. 

Perhaps five minutes later, Ana Castillo came scurrying back from the dayroom, grievance in hand. She saw Lt. McNeely in the picket, fenced away from her by metal and Plexiglas. She banged on the door to get her attention. 

"I'll get your damn grievance form," Kelly McNeely muttered under her breath. "Hold your water, will you?" 

She opened the drawer of the document carrier, which allowed inmates to pass paperwork into the picket without actually contacting the officers therein. The document carrier was not appreciably different from the one installed years before in Hannibal Lecter's cell. The goal, of course, was the same – to enable two people to trade small items back and forth without being in physical contact. Lt. McNeely shoved it out towards the young woman outside. Ana put her paper inside and pushed it back. Lt. McNeely opened the metal box and took out the paper. 

As she scanned it, she sighed. Ana had not filled out her name, number, or anything else. She was about to put it back in the carrier and tell her to fill it out correctly when she saw it. In the blank portion of the paper in which the inmates were expected to fill out the specifics of their complaint were two sentences. One was in Spanish, and Lt. McNeely could make neither heads nor tails of it. Under it, written in a different hand, was an English sentence. Kelly McNeely had suspected that other inmates were providing Ana with translation services, and here it was. 

__

She said Dont talk to me your not allouwed go away you wont see me no more after tonite any ways. 

Lieutenant Kelly McNeely sighed. Great. Just great. Susana had refused anyone else, so it fell to her to try and get her pet sociopath talking. She'd never thought of Susana Alvarez as the suicidal type, but there it was. She got up from her desk and left the picket, heading towards Susana's cell. At the door, she stopped. Regulations forbade her from opening the door without other officers present. She could see Susana through the door. She hadn't moved. Still on the bunk, still facing away from the door. She did not move when McNeely approached. 

Lt. McNeely considered. She didn't think Susana would attack her: she'd behaved so far. But one never knew. She was well aware of what Susana was capable of. But the alternative could be very, very ugly. Lt. McNeely knew from painful experience that a determined prisoner could often find myriad ways of ending their lives. 

She gritted her teeth, bolstered her courage, and radioed the picket officer to open Susana's cell. The mechanical buzz sounded and the door swung open on its hinges. Kelly McNeely took a deep breath and stepped into the cell. 

Susana appeared not to notice her entry. She simply sat, staring at the concrete wall in front of her, arms clasped around her knees. Lt. McNeely cleared her throat. 

"Lieutenant," Susana said finally. "You're still early. And it can't be another visitor." 

Lt. Kelly McNeely eyed the placid monster in front of her. "I…wanted to see how you were doing," she said neutrally. 

"About as well as can be expected, Lieutenant." It was Susana's stock answer to the question. 

"Seems you weren't interested in talking to the jail ministers," Kelly observed. 

Susana shrugged. "I wasn't." She fell silent for a moment before starting again. Her voice grew bitterer as she spoke. "I'm not interested in a pleasant lie about how my mother is wearing wings and playing a harp on a fluffy cloud somewhere. Up with Jeeee-zus." 

"I take it you're not a Christian," Lt. McNeely said calmly. 

"Not in the least," Susana said, and gave the lieutenant a calm look. "Are you? Do you believe Jesus turned water into wine?" 

McNeely, a long-lapsed Catholic, shrugged. 

"It's all claptrap anyway," Susana said, seeming disappointed.

"Well, you know," McNeely said calmly, "you shook up Ana Castillo a bit." 

"Did I? I was simply informing her of your order that she not speak with me." 

"She's worried about you." 

"How nice of her," Susana said distantly. "I'd thank her, but I'm not allowed to speak with her anymore." 

Lt. McNeely crossed forward and took Susana's arm. A bright copper spring of fear jumped up into her throat and settled on her tongue. It occurred to her that this was the longest time she had ever been in Susana's presence without Susana being restrained. But Susana did nothing, simply turned her head and looked at her. 

"She says you told her she wouldn't see you after tonight," McNeely said. "Care to tell me what that means?" 

"She told you that? Well, I'm impressed. Her English must have taken a quantum leap forward," Susana said drily. "An hour ago she only knew 'Yes, ma'am'. How do you think she mastered the language so quickly?" 

"You know what I mean," Lt. McNeely said, exasperated. She swallowed and forced herself to calm down. "Susana…I don't know what you're feeling or what you're thinking right now, but if you're…you're thinking of doing something to yourself, you shouldn't." 

Susana turned back to the wall in front of her and tilted her head. Her eyes were focused on nothing in front of her. She smiled slightly. It creeped the lieutenant out. 

"Kill myself, you mean? Oh no, lieutenant, I know that's not permitted. The federal government would be so horribly jealous. They want to be the ones to kill me." 

Kelly McNeely was forced to admit, at least to herself, that she really had no idea how Susana Alvarez was dealing with the news of her mother's death. She could not tell if the expression on her face was real or a mask. The functioning of the mind behind that face was alien, as unfathomable to her as the inner workings of a VCR would be to a caveman. For the first time, she wondered if Susana belonged in an asylum for the criminally insane. 

"I can get a psychologist in here, if you'd prefer to talk to one of them," she offered. "They don't work for the jail. They work for the county." 

"How nice," Susana observed. "Separation of power is vital to prevent tyranny. The framers of your Constitution thought so." 

"If I do, will you talk to them?" 

Susana chuckled. "No," she said promptly. "You might as well get a witch doctor in here, lieutenant. Psychology is a pseudo-science." 

_At least she's honest. _"I thought your father was a psychologist," Lt. McNeely said archly. 

"No. He was a psy_chi_atrist. And he stopped practicing long before I was born." She saw Susana's cheek twitch at mentioning her father. _Smooth move there, Miss Counselor. _

Lt. McNeely sighed. "All right. Psychiatrist. Look, it's about time for your time out, so come on. I'll let you have the extra fifteen minutes." 

Susana shook her head. "Thank you," she said, "but I'd prefer to stay here." 

Kelly McNeely fought to avoid goggling. Most inmates regarded their out time as sacred. For inmates in ad seg, that was doubly so. Locked down for as long as they were, the few hours out of their cell were treasured privileges. No one ever turned down out time, unless they were forcibly restricted to their cell. 

"You _what?"_ she asked, stunned. 

"I'd prefer to stay here," Susana said mildly. "My stomach doesn't agree with me, so I'm not in the mood to exercise. I spoke with my attorney two days ago, and nothing has changed. There's no reason to go out." 

Lt. McNeely worked her jaw in surprise for a few moments. "I don't think that's the best thing for you," she said finally. 

"I do," Susana replied. "I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant, but I'd prefer you left me to deal with this myself." 

Lt. McNeely nodded. She knew the balance between sympathy and harshness that all prison guards had to walk. "If that's what you'd rather, Susana, that's fine," she said calmly. Her tone became firmer as she continued. 

"But if I walk out that door and you're on this side of it, you're staying here until 2:00 tomorrow. No changing your mind." 

Susana nodded, seeming bored. "Of course," she said. 

"And if you are considering doing anything to yourself, come get me." 

"I'm not," Susana repeated. She eyed the lieutenant with the same sort of bored, patronizing mien that her father had treated his jailers with. 

"Good. Because if you do, Susana, then I'll have to put you on suicide watch. Know what that means?" 

"I'm afraid not. I rarely get the chance to see much of the pod." 

Lt. McNeely shrugged. "It means an isolation cell, for one thing." 

Susana seemed to take an interest in the conversation for the first time. She smiled sardonically. "Which is different from this…how?" 

"Well," Lt. McNeely said calmly, "no personal property. Those books and that radio wouldn't go with you. That's for one. You'd also be monitored constantly. That's for two. No toilet in the isolation cells either, so you'd have to convince whoever was watching you to let you go. That's three. And fourthly, I'd have to take your clothes away. You'd get a paper gown. Can't hang yourself with a paper gown, you know. And once you're on suicide watch, you'd stay on it until I was satisfied." 

The slow melting of Susana's sardonic expression was a sweet reward. Lt. McNeely would have prized it more had she known how rarely Susana ever let anyone get to her. But even so, it was quite welcome. She wasn't exactly sure _what _she'd won, but won she had. McNeely decided to be a little magnanimous in her victory. She rose to leave. 

"I tell you what, Susana," she said pleasantly. "How about you take fifteen minutes to think about it, tell me if you still want your out time." The heavy metal door closed behind her, and she busied herself with running the rest of her cellblock. There was plenty to do that didn't involve Susana Alvarez Lecter. So she went out, talked with her people, saw to her inmates, listened to their problems, helped if she could, told them no when she couldn't. It made the time go by quickly. 

One of her sergeants told her that Susana had stuck to her guns and stayed in her cell. That wasn't what she had expected. Well, perhaps she was just trying to prove a point. That was fine, let her, it was her damn out time anyway. There was still plenty of other things to do. 

Shortly after dinner, Lt. McNeely was settling an argument between two of her inmates and wondering why she'd ever taken the job here in this giant baby-sitting farm. She was down on the side of the cellblock where Susana was kept. As she listened to the two bickering women argue over the ownership of a pillow (_Good Christ, _she thought, _a pillow, these two are almost in tears over a pillow,_) she noticed Susana's dinner tray was left outside her cell. It was untouched. Her face clouded over and the first intuitions that something might be actually wrong probed her stomach. 

She settled the argument by confiscating the pillow in question. As she returned it to the laundry room, she heard one of her guards radio out the code that meant 'sick inmate'. _Typical, someone's got a runny nose. Well, someone else can wipe it this time. _

The radio buzzed again. "Lieutenant, you there?"

She sighed and took the mike attached to the epaulet of her uniform blouse. "Yes, I'm here," she said. "Whatcha got?" 

"On that 230 that just got called out? You might want to come check it out…," 

"Why?" she asked, knowing in the pit of her stomach why already. 

"It's…it's Sally," the voice said, using the code name the guards used on the radio to refer to Susana Alvarez Lecter. 

_Shit. _"Be down there in a minute," she said. "What's up?" 

"Umm…it looks bad, lieutenant." 

_Aw jeez_. As she headed back down to that end of the cellblock, she tried to think. Susana had seemed all right when she'd talked to her before. Had things gotten worse that quickly? Should she have forced Susana out of her cell? What the hell could her pet killer have done anyway? Her entire personal property consisted of five paperback books, some paper, two soft-tip pens, and the radio her cousin had given her. 

Susana's cell door was open when she arrived. Lt. McNeely ducked around the door and glanced in. Two guards were standing in the cell. Susana was sitting on the floor, leaning against the far wall. Her hands were already behind her back. The lieutenant realized at once what they had meant by 'it looks bad'. 

Susana's face was flushed and sweaty. Her hair clung together in sweaty strands. Her breathing seemed labored. Her eyes flicked up to Kelly's when she saw her enter, but she said nothing. She was trembling. There was an unfamiliar look on her face, and it took Lt. McNeely a moment to place it. She'd seen it a million times, but never on Susana's face before. The unpleasant look of pain and fear. 

"OK, what's going on here?" Lt. McNeely asked authoritatively. "Susana? What are you doing?" 

A semblance of the usual sardonic mien crossed over Susana's face. McNeely got the idea that she would have said more, but it hurt to speak. 

"Dying, lieutenant," she said in a dry, cracked voice. "I'm dying." 

__


	4. Bad Things Come in Threes

They say bad things come in threes, and that is often how it goes. For Susana Alvarez Lecter, bad things had indeed come in threes. The first, obviously, had been her arrest. The second had been the news of her mother. And now, this was the third. But Susana was calm despite her knowledge of what might happen. If she was careful, this might turn to her benefit. 

Lt. Kelly McNeely eyed her prisoner and took a deep, calming breath. Susana certainly looked like dying was a possibility. She took a few steps up to where Susana sat and crouched down. This close, she could feel the heat radiating off the other woman's body and winced. That was one hell of a fever. 

"Okay," she said calmly. "Nobody's dying. What's wrong with you?" 

"My stomach," Susana said, and grimaced. "I think it's my appendix. It hurts."

Belatedly, Lt. McNeely remembered that Susana was a doctor herself, like her father. A Dr. Lecter for the new age. "How long has this been going on?" 

"A few hours," Susana answered tiredly. "It's been getting worse and worse." 

A long, exasperated hiss escaped from Lt. McNeely's lips. "All right," she said. She turned her attention to the other guards in the cell. "Get her on her feet and down to the infirmary." 

"The infirmary can't help," Susana objected. "They'll give me a Tylenol and send me back here, and I'll be dead by morning." Her face was oddly blank, as if this idea meant little to her. 

Of all the things Kelly McNeely would have disliked having to do, taking Susana Alvarez Lecter off the cellblock had to be one of them. But it was clear enough that it had to be done. The guards helped Susana to her feet. Up close, Lt. McNeely could feel a sick heat radiating off her: more like a bank of coals in a jail uniform than a human being. 

There were no shortage of federal agents who would believe that death and pain were Susana Alvarez Lecter's just desserts. Kelly McNeely did not share this opinion. Her job had always been twofold: to maintain the security of the block, but also to make sure her inmates remained safe. Whatever Susana had done on the outside did not matter to her: her job was to keep Susana safely jugged. The lieutenant could be hard, when the situation demanded hardness. But not all situations did. 

Kelly McNeely had never experienced the slaughter of lambs, but she understood the concept behind it perfectly well. She knew her duties. No one was dying on her watch. Not even Susana Alvarez Lecter. 

She shook her head. "Nobody dies on my watch, Susana. If you need it, you'll get it. I promise."

So she got Susana on her feet and brought her down the hall to the heavy steel doors separating the pod from the rest of the building. Guards and inmates alike stopped and stared. Lt. McNeely glared at the guard at the gate. 

"Open it," she snapped. The guard hastily complied. The heavy metal doors slammed open with a crash. And Kelly McNeely took Susana Alvarez Lecter off the cellblock for the first time since her arraignment. The doors crashed shut behind them. 

Susana herself seemed no more threatening than Ana Castillo: she was hunched over as she walked and seemed to be in obvious pain. She was handcuffed, but her legs were free. That was probably for the best, McNeely thought. She seemed uninterested in misbehaving.

At the jail infirmary, there was only a skeleton crew. The doctor had gone home for the night, but there was a nurse. Carefully, McNeely allowed Susana to lie down on a gurney so the nurse could examine her. As she did, the lieutenant was close by, mindful that Susana might attempt to imitate her father. So far, she did not seem to be trying. 

That wasn't surprising. 

The nurse took an ear thermometer and put it to Susana's ear. A few moments later, the tiny machine let out a beep. The nurse seemed surprised at what she saw. Lt. McNeely glanced down at it. The digital display read 104.2. 

"So what's the deal?" Lt. McNeely asked. 

The nurse sighed. "Well…very high fever…tenderness in her abdomen…it could be appendicitis. She should really go to the hospital, but,…" 

Kelly McNeely knew perfectly well what the but was about, but decided to ask anyway. 

"But what?" 

"I can't order a transfer," the nurse said timidly. "The doctor needs to do that. And he's not here, you'll have to page him." 

Principles are all well and good to have, but it's in the clutch that principles are truly tested. It is easy enough to claim to love helping animals, for example, when the animals involved are harmless bunnies. The true test for an animal lover is when the animal needing help is not a rabbit but a wounded wolf. It wasn't the most flattering of analogies, but definitely applicable to Susana Alvarez Lecter. 

The lieutenant eyed her prisoner, lowered her head for a moment or two, and thought. Susana Alvarez was a murderer many times over. She was highly dangerous and capable of great violence. She had killed law enforcement officers without a second thought. 

But she was clearly sick, and could die without medical treatment. The largest thing for the lieutenant was this: she was Kelly McNeely's responsibility. That made the decision simple. There were those who would think death by ruptured appendix would be highly appropriate for Susana Alvarez Lecter, but she was not in their care and custody. Plus, the heat from a federal prisoner dying on Lt. McNeely's watch wasn't something she wanted to think about. Particularly when that prisoner was one the government wanted on trial so badly. 

"I can, and I am," Kelly said. "Thank you for looking at her." She grabbed her radio and told them to call an ambulance. Then she reached down and helped Susana off the gurney. 

"I'm going to take you down to Release now," she told her killer. "You're going to the hospital." 

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Susana said tiredly. 

"I'll be there with you. Don't try anything. Behave and you'll get through this."

Susana nodded. 

Release was a section of the prison Susana had never expected to see. It proved to simply be a large property room where prisoners got their property returned to them, parallel to the Intake section. Prisoners entering the jail could not see prisoners leaving the jail. The lieutenant opened the heavy steel door and let Susana walk through it. For the first time since her arrest, Susana was outside. 

Even despite her discomfort, it was good to be outside. It seemed vast and boundless after the tiny cell. Susana asked if she could sit down on the concrete steps and was allowed to. She looked up at the dark Virginia night sky and smiled, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in her stomach. 

_Not yet_, Susana Alvarez Lecter thought. 

The ambulance came, and Susana was loaded into it. The lieutenant remained with her in the back of the ambulance. Susana knew perfectly well that the lieutenant's presence was to make sure she didn't try to escape. A reasonable thing to do, but it wasn't time yet. 

At the hospital, Susana was examined quickly in the ER. It was noisy and bustling, and the presence of an inmate was not uncommon. Susana expected this: during her own med school and residency in Boston, it was the same. A blood test revealed a high white-blood cell count, and an ultrasound supported the nurse's – and Susana's – original diagnosis of appendicitis. She was taken up to surgery and prepared. The lieutenant remained with her, and she remained handcuffed by one wrist to whatever gurney or bed she was in. She was freed only to change from the prison jumpsuit into the patient gown. Even in pre-anesthesia, where patients waited to be taken into surgery, Lt. McNeely remained over her. 

_Interesting, _Susana Alvarez Lecter thought. _She actually seems concerned. But it's not time yet. _

The anesthesiologist came by and gave Susana her pre-op injection. She ran through her own mental checklist of what would happen. Pre-op anesthesia would make her drowsy. Then in the OR, she'd be put under. Then…well, then they would do the procedure. She had done it herself before, and wondered whether they would do it traditionally or laparoscopically. Traditional would give her a few days in the hospital, but lapo would give her only one. Either way, that was OK. 

The drug took effect quickly. Dimly, she could hear Lt. McNeely saying something to her, but she couldn't grasp it. She heard metal rattle and felt her wrist yanked and turned: the cuff was being removed. Then she was taken into the OR, and a mask was placed over her face, and she fell into a deep sleep. 

Lt. McNeely watched her go. She sighed. The rush and bustle of getting her admitted was over: now came the boring part. She checked her watch and cursed. She was supposed to be off an hour or so ago. She could always call for relief, but something in her was loath to leave. Susana was out cold in the OR now, but she would be up eventually. Kelly McNeely wanted to be there when she did. 

_Nice, _she thought. _She gets to sleep and I get to stay here and wait. _

She made arrangements with the hospital for Susana to be housed in the jail ward, where she would be kept securely. She would have a private room, since the lieutenant was loath to house her around another inmate. She called the jail and updated them on the situation. 

But after that, there wasn't much more she had to do other than wander the halls and drink the hospital coffee, which was almost on par with the jail's for sheer lack of taste. It was all there was, so she drank it anyway. Boring. She checked in with the surgical department occasionally, but mostly all there was for her to do was watch and wait. Oh well. The overtime would be nice. 

Susana's operation was over in about three hours, and she spent another half-hour or so in recovery. Lt. McNeely accompanied her as she was wheeled to her room in the jail ward. Once there, she shackled Susana's right wrist to the rail of her bed and headed down the hall to determine what to do next. And get some more coffee. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter rubbed her eyes. It was time now. She reached under the sheet and pulled up the hem of her gown. Across her abdomen were three small bandages. It would be one day's recuperation, which meant it had to be now. Susana glanced around and reached into the white cotton panties she had been obliged to buy from the jail commissary. She'd guessed that they wouldn't search her too thoroughly, and she had been right. When she pulled her hand out of her underwear, she held a small piece of plastic. 

Susana had long heard of her father's escape from custody in Memphis, and she had found the story endlessly interesting. He had told her how he made the handcuff key, and Susana had determined to duplicate it once she ended up in custody herself. She wasn't able to exactly copy his method, but her own would work well enough. 

Roughly three weeks after her incarceration, she had been on the phone with her attorney. Fortunately, she was allowed to go to the phone, unlike her father. She had politely asked one of the guards if she could borrow a pen. The guard had obliged her, warning her that it would be demanded back. The pen was a simple, standard-grade ballpoint, and it had a plastic ink tube in place of the metal one her father had once gotten access to. Even that was all right. Susana had quickly pulled the pen apart and bitten off the last inch or so from the open end of the ink tube. The stub she had bitten off she had hidden in her mouth. The rest of the pen she reassembled and gave back to the guard when asked. The pen still worked, so the guard suspected nothing. Her cooperativeness in giving the pen back when asked was duly noted.

After that, she had been stuck until her cousin's visit. The small radio Lisa Starling had given her cousin took AA batteries, and the small battery hatch that covered them once they were in had two small plastic prongs that extended under the body of the radio, to hold it on. Carefully, Susana had broken off a tiny piece from the end of one of the prongs. To make the necessary cuts was not convenient, as she had no tools at all in her cell. They could deny her tools, but she still had her teeth, and she had carefully rubbed the tiny edge of the ink tube against her upper teeth until she had worn a slit into it. Here it was fortunate that she had plastic to work with rather than metal: it was much easier to cut. 

The piece of plastic from the prong took a bit of nibbling before it fit properly, but finally it did. She had forgone her time out of the cell in order to finish her key. The piece from the battery hatch sat neatly as a cross-piece, just a quarter-inch sticking out. She knew that the handcuff locks had small metal posts, and so she had carefully worn a slot in that too, so that the key would properly fit a handcuff lock. The key was easy to hide in the seams of clothing, the cheek, and other places. It had one other advantage over her father's design: a metal detector would not pick it up. 

By that time, Susana knew she was sick, and would have to be taken to the hospital. Just what trick of fate had decided to inflict appendicitis on her the day after her mother died she did not know. To Susana, it was no more than a bad roll of the dice, snake-eyes, bad things come in threes. True, it was a rather hideous run of bad luck, but here she was, and here she might have the opportunity to escape. Her accomplice would doubtlessly ascribe more meaning to it, claiming that God had given her the opportunity, opened the door for her, set her free from the lions, bla bla bla. She'd hear plenty of that later tonight. 

But there would be plenty of time for _that_. 

The resulting key was improvised, and she doubted it would hold together for too long. In jail, Susana was required to wear both handcuffs and leg irons when out of her cell. Her key would probably not hold up to opening four locks, even if she ever had the opportunity to use it without guards flanking her. But here, in the hospital, there was only her one wrist handcuffed. 

In a way, it was amusing. At the beginning of her confinement, it had occurred to her that they would never let her off the cellblock unless she was at death's door. Well, lo and behold. She'd behaved as they wanted her to, but she knew she'd stay in segregation for good. And here she was, one step closer to being free. Perhaps there was something to her accomplice's beliefs after all. At this point, it didn't matter. If he played his part, things would be fine. If not, she could still manage. 

Carefully, Susana slid her key into the handcuff on her wrist and turned it slowly. She could feel the piece of plastic catch on the lock. Experimentally, she pushed on it. She could feel the plastic bend a bit in resistance, but the tumbler was moving too. Good. She felt the cuff roll open and fall away from her wrist, and carefully extracted the key. 

She smoothed out the plastic as best she could and decided to try removing the cuff from the bed rail: it would make it easier to wield the handcuffs. Experimentally, she moved her body and was not pleased. She was sore and felt weak. But it would have to do. She would prefer death over prison. 

The key unlocked it again, but she heard a snap and felt something slip. When she removed the key again, she had only the ink tube: the piece off the battery hatch was gone, fallen down into the guts of the lock.

Oh well. It wasn't like it would be _her _wrists they would be on. 

Susana covered up her free right wrist with the blanket and composed herself. She pulled out her IV. It bled a little, but it wasn't worth noting. She pressed on it with the bedsheet and the wound stopped bleeding quickly. When she called out, her voice was rusty and tired. 

"Lieutenant?" she called out. "Lieutenant McNeely?" 

The lieutenant came in a few minutes later. She stood in the doorway, not close enough for Susana to reach. She looked exhausted, heavy bags under her eyes. That was good: instead of a whole cellblockful of guards she would have to fight, it would be only one exhausted guard. Susana supposed tonight had been stressful for her too. It was about to get much worse. 

"Yes, Susana?" she asked tiredly. 

"May I use the bathroom, please?" 

The lieutenant sighed and put a hand to her eyes, rubbing them to stay awake. "Yes, all right." 

Lt. McNeely came forward, reaching in her pocket for the key. Outwardly, Susana looked as exhausted and tired as McNeely. Internally, she was watchful and tense. She choreographed what was about to happen in her mind three or four times while the lieutenant crossed to her bed. When she was in Susana's reach, Susana struck. 

She came out fast with the handcuffs, the good cuff without the plastic blocking the lock in her hand. She slapped it on the lieutenant's wrist and then pulled her forward. The lieutenant gasped. Susana locked the other cuff onto the bedrail. She could feel the plastic working in the lock, but it went through well enough. 

It was a battle of weakened women: Susana weakened from her illness and subsequent surgery, the lieutenant weakened by exhaustion and having only one free hand. Lt. McNeely groped for the pepper spray on her belt. Susana struck her hand savagely and was rewarded by hearing the can clack against the ground and roll across the room. 

Then she grabbed Lt. McNeely's collar, high up and cross-handed. The sides of her hands pressed against the lieutenant's throat. Her fingers tightened on the shirt material and she pulled as hard as she could, neatly cutting off the blood supply to Lt. McNeely's brain. 

It was a short fight and there was little sound. Lt. McNeely struck Susana on the side of the head. Susana grimaced, flicked her head to the side, and held on. The lieutenant grabbed her hair and yanked. It wasn't comfortable and it pulled her head back, but she kept her grip on McNeely's collar. Perhaps thirty seconds later, the lieutenant flagged, her hand sliding limp from Susana's head. 

Susana kept up the pressure for another ten seconds, just in case her opponent was faking. She slid out from under the bed and closed the door. She pried open Lt. McNeely's eyes and peered into them for a moment or two. Despite herself, Susana liked the lieutenant and didn't want to kill her if she could avoid it. For the moment, Lt. McNeely was unconscious, but she looked stable. That was good. She'd showed Susana some kindness, and Susana supposed that giving her life back to her would be a suitable reward.

It didn't take long to swap clothes with the unconscious McNeely. The shoes were a little tight. She was perhaps two inches taller than the lieutenant and approximately the same build. The uniform fit acceptably well. Susana then arranged Lt. McNeely in the bed. She tore three strips off the bedsheet. One strip secured her free wrist. One went in her mouth, and the other Susana tied across her mouth. 

"Sleep tight, Lieutenant McNeely," Susana said lightly.

She didn't know how much time she had or how many others there might be. McNeely's belt provided her with a baton, pepper spray, and a gun. She'd prefer not to use any of them if she had to – it would attract too much attention. So she opened the door and looked out into the hall. 

She took some pleasure in noticing the outside of her door warned all and sundry that herein dwelled a violent inmate. That was good: perhaps they would ignore the lieutenant's first noises. She closed the door and strode down the hall. There were a few guards there, but none of them seemed to take any real interest in her. They saw the uniform and their brains turned off. All the better.

Her med school and residency years helped her navigate. The one end of the long hall led to a barred gate to the outside world. Operating it was a bored man in a uniform identical to hers behind a large sheet of Plexiglass. Susana strolled up to the gate and stopped, her hands in her pockets. She affected a bored mien, even though she was itching for the final gate to open. 

"Hey," the man said. 

"Hey," Susana returned. "I just need to get a form." 

"You McNeely's relief?" 

"Yeah," Susana returned. "But I gotta get…," she snapped her fingers as if trying to jog her memory. "You know. That form."

"Yeah, the damn forms," the man said morosely. "All that paperwork, you know? Here. Sign out." He pushed a clipboard through a hole in the Plexiglass partition towards her. Susana took it and signed a name to it and then smiled brightly at him. 

"How's her inmate doing?" the guard asked, and scratched himself.

"Just fine. A little sore," Susana said truthfully. "She's a nasty one, though. Tell the others, they don't want to open that door if they can avoid it." She chuckled. "She's a biter, you know. Leave it up to me." 

"Yeah, I heard," the bored door guard said. He pushed a button and the door opened with an electric buzz. Susana tried to control her elation as she headed out of the jail ward into the free world. 

The uniform would get her out the door, but she needed something less conspicuous once she was out. She headed out of the ward and looked for the signs. Finding her way to the hospital parking garage was not terribly difficult. She had the walkie-talkie on and was listening for signs that her escape had been discovered. Nothing so far. Her stomach still ached, but she was stable, and that was what mattered. 

Even this late, there were people moving in and out: the families of ER patients, mostly. She saw a family heading back to their minivan and passed them up. Then she caught sight of a well-dressed middle-aged man walking alone back to his Audi, a bandage over his cheek. He was speaking into his cell phone, his eyes firmly elsewhere. In his other hand he held his keys, fumbling for the remote control to his car alarm. She slipped up behind him as quietly as she could, but she needn't have bothered. All of his attention was focused on the person he was talking to. He was assuring someone that he was all right, just a couple of stitches, nothing to worry about. 

The first blow from the baton hit him on the back of the neck and he dropped to his knees as if axed. The cell phone dropped from his hand. Just to be sure, Susana tromped on it and it broke apart with a plastic crunch. Electronic guts spilled over the concrete of the parking lot. He screamed once, and Susana shut him with with a blast from the pepper spray. Now he was blinded and already hurt. Even weakened and in pain as she was, it was easy to beat him to death with five more judicious blows from the baton. 

She hauled him over to a nearby pickup truck, grimacing all the while. The pickup truck had a piece of canvas stretched tight across the bed. Susana undid some of the snaps and dumped him inside. That hurt her stomach incision something awful, and she had to hold the side of the pickup and bend over and breathe until the nausea went away. Then she snapped it back up, neatly hiding the body.

She pressed the button on the car alarm remote and followed the chirp. The car wasn't far away. It was a black Audi A6. Not too bad. Probably a midlife-crisis car. Even better, there was a tan trenchcoat in the back which would serve well to hide the guard uniform. It was much too big for her and she had to roll up the sleeves, but it would do for the car. 

In the rearview, she noticed her face was speckled with blood and she wiped it off with some tissues she found in the center console of the Audi. As she studied her face in the mirror, she smiled suddenly, sadly. 

"I did it, papa," she said. She thought he would have been proud. But he also would have understood that there was little time for sentiment right now. 

The man had conveniently left the parking ticket on his dashboard. Susana adjusted Kelly McNeely's gunbelt on her hips and checked the pockets of Kelly McNeely's uniform. She was rewarded with a crumpled five-dollar bill in the right shirt pocket and two quarters in the right pants pocket. She started the car and drove away. The walkie-talkie occupied the passenger seat, turned all the way up. She paid the parking garage attendant and drove away into the night. 

A few blocks down the street from the hospital was a convenience store. Susana pulled into the parking lot and walked around to the side of the building. A pay phone hung there. She took the phone, dropped Kelly McNeely's change into the phone, and dialed a number from memory. 

A voice answered, "Hello?" 

"Hi," Susana said. "It's me. You told me you wanted a sign, right?" 

The voice seemed startled. "You mean…," 

"That's right. I'll be over in twenty minutes. Did you get the things I asked you to get?"

"Of course I did." 

"Good," Susana said, her tone clipped. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm in a bit of a rush here." 

The voice chuckled. "Then we'll talk when you get here. I'll be waiting." 

Susana hung up the phone. She decided she didn't need the walkie-talkie anymore – once they found it missing they could use it to home in on her. So she dropped it under the Audi's rear tire and backed over it with an audible plastic crunch. The walkie-talkie was built to take more abuse than the phone had been, but was not engineered to survive being driven over. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter dropped the Audi into first gear, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed out into the late Virginia night to meet her accomplice.


	5. Heretic

_Author's note: This is going to be, well, a different chapter. I do want to make a disclaimer before we start off, and it's not the usual I-don't-own-these-characters disclaimer. Cause to be honest, the only character I don't own in this chapter is the GD and he's mentioned in passing. Susana's killed off just about everyone else Thomas Harris created. _

But…I do want to offer fair warning to anyone who may consider themselves a devout Christian or otherwise religious. I will advise you now that if this applies to you you may well be offended by this chapter. Scotch the may well, you will be. I don't think there are terribly many devout Lecterphiles out there, but just in case. Writing this chapter has probably ensured that my soul is heading to the bottom of the bubbling inferno. (Which it probably was already, especially if cliffies are a sin.) 

So if you do want to read, by all means, but keep in mind, I did warn you. 

For the non-devout: You wanted to know about the accomplice, Dear Reader? Come close and be informed. Closer, please…closer….

He raised his hands into the air and trembled in excitement. The time was coming. The first few omens had swept over the land. The first were small things, tiny things, easy to lose notice of. But the Hand of God worked in strange and mysterious ways. But he had seen them coming. And now, the omens were so great that even an ordinary man could see them. 

He sat down on his living room couch and trembled with excitement. _She _was here, in his house. In his bed. If he tiptoed to his bedroom door, he could hear her breathing, low and deep as she slept. He had done so several times before already, excitement thrilling his limbs, but he did not do so again. He would let her rest for now. She needed some sleep. He would sleep on the couch tonight. He knew all about charity and kindness. He had learned well. 

He crossed over to his refrigerator and pulled out a beer. The top twisted off and he flick. He stared down into the brown neck of the bottle and into the foamy liquid for a few minutes before quaffing it. Beer always made him feel slightly conflicted. Alcohol was a Tool of the Devil. They had told him so at the orphanage, and he'd certainly seen what it had done to Mother before that. But he knew that Father Curran drank occasionally, so he had tried it. Drinking always made him feel slightly guilty, slightly bad. A sinner. 

Mother drank. She was a sinner. Until he was twelve years old, he had lived his entire life on eggshells. If mother was sober, he was generally all right. It was when she drank that things were worse. Once she had told him about the fires of hell, and showed him with an object lesson. She held his arm over the kitchen stove and held it there for fifteen minutes. If he screamed or moved, she had told him, she would take him to the orphanage at once. 

The pain had been excruciating, but he had managed. 

And there were other pains and torments that he had undergone. She often sent him to school without food or money. He'd become adept at stealing lunches from other children. Stealing was a sin, he knew, but starving was worse. At home he was not always fed, either. He had learned how to rearrange things in the refrigerator so that she did not notice. Sometimes she did, and yelled at him anyway. The other children swiftly learned to exclude him with the swift wrath that the young have for anyone noticeably different. He wore long sleeves when it was hot to hide the bruises. The orphanage was a common threat.

He remembered his last day with her very well. It had been three days after he turned twelve. Despite the fact that food wasn't always something he had access to, he had somehow managed to grow, and grow taller than her. She noticed this sourly. He would always remember how she had looked at him, utter disgust on her face, the scent of cheap gin hanging around her in a nasty-smelling cloud. Her lips curled at him in boozy anger. 

"You think you're smart, huh?" she had asked. "Getting too big for me? You're not big enough that I can't beat your ass." 

That much was par for the course. He was used to the cruel words and threats. Sometimes, she was too boozed up to actually make contact. This wasn't one of those times. He did not know then what it was he had done to set her off. It wasn't until later that he made the connection and realized what Mother was. 

She'd struck him in the face, a full-force blow, closed fist. He had laughed. That wasn't anything he couldn't handle. Then, he'd simply wiped up the blood and headed for the bathroom to get a towel. As he was holding his nose, he had heard her coming up behind him. When he had turned, he had seen the flash of the knife in her hand, and felt the bright bolt of pain as it entered his chest. The pain had been amazing, indescribable. He'd honestly thought he was going to die. He'd managed to get away from her, though. He'd staggered out of the house and collapsed in the front yard. The neighbors had found him lying in the street, flopping like a caught fish, the haft of the knife sticking out of his chest. Even after all these years, he could still remember the bitter, red pain and the feel of the gravel against his face. 

After that, he never saw Mother again. His last memory of her, ever, was of her watching him through the back window of a police car. Her face still bitter and harsh through the glass, looking at him with no sympathy at all. The police officer and then the ambulance crew leaning over him: _Poor kid, Jesus, what a psycho she must have been. _

When he got out of the hospital, a woman with reddish-brown hair and a blue suit came to see him. At the time, he thought she was the prettiest woman he had ever seen. She smelled nice and actually smiled at him. She told him she was from the county and that she was going to find him a place to stay. He had ended up at the orphanage. And so it had come to pass: bad boys went to the orphanage to live, and so he must be bad.

At the orphanage, there were other, larger boys who tormented him. The sisters were strict and hit you with rulers. That was fine. It was better than where he had been: they didn't stab you when they were mad at you. He could take it. And as he grew older and stronger, he was able to fight off his tormentors. 

He was fifteen when he had been selected to hear the truth. The orphanage had a library that consisted mostly of religious books. It was way, way back in the shelf. _Tortures and Torments of Christian Martyrs. _And then it all had become so clear. Now, looking back, he had to laugh that he hadn't seen it before. 

He had always wondered how it was that the sisters and priests could claim that God was so merciful and loving. It did not square well at all with his experience. God seemed to love and hunger only for pain. The Bible – at least the New Testament – did not explain anything to him at all. But now _this _book…this book was the Truth. 

He saw over and over copies of woodcuts in which heretics tortured martyrs. He drank it in. He saw in there the cruelty and pain that he knew life consisted of. The church had known about this for almost fifteen hundred years! They knew all about it! It was a sublime and amazing discovery. 

It took him some time to put this together. Obviously God was indeed a God of anger and horror and pain. But He – or the Church – did not want people to realize this. Only rare ones, strong people, like himself, could bear to live in a world thus so. So that must explain all the love and mercy and other claptrap that he was forced to listen to every Sunday. 

But there it was. Martyrs were exalted for suffering and dying in defense of the faith. But surely they were just men as he was. Therefore, what earned them their exaltation was clearly being tortured and dying. So then, did it not follow that the heretics were actually doing them a favor? Weren't they _helping_ the martyrs? After all, if there were no heretics there would be no martyrs. So God must want there to be heretics, torturing and exalting the martyrs at the same time. 

Looking back, he could now understand what had compelled him at younger ages. He sought out small animals, cats and dogs and squirrels. Now, he knew what he had been doing. He had martyred them. People seemed horrified at the sight of the sad little bodies after he was done with them. But he stopped. After all, they were animals and he did not know if they had souls or not. It was a waste and it was childish. 

By the time he came to understand these truths, the underlying framework of his life, he was almost eighteen. Once that happened, he was on his own in the world. The night before his eighteenth birthday, he went out onto the street and hunted down the street trash, the homeless men and women who populate every city. He'd found what he was looking for: a young hooker, probably younger than he. To get into a sleazy hotel room with her for an hour was a simple matter. But she'd cried when he tied her up and begged. 

"Do you believe in God?" he had asked. She'd said yes. Good enough. Clearly, without his help she would die a sinner. Just like most martyrs, no better than the rest except that they died for their faith. So he had taken out the claw hammer out of the back of his waistband. He'd taken it from the maintenance man's toolbox. It wasn't missed. 

The hammer was a crude tool, but it had done the job. By the time he had been done, there was blood all over the room, and all over him. Small chunks of bone clung to his face. The claw end of the hammer was an excellent thing to martyr with. Once he was done, he was taken by how relaxed and peaceful her face looked in death. Martyr. Died for her faith. She was exalted now, far more exalted than she ever would have been had she been permitted to live. 

He'd left the orphanage for the Army, one barracks for another. He got along reasonably well and did his job. It was boring, but it was easy work, and it left him nights and weekends to pursue his true calling. He'd almost gotten caught once in Bielefeld. He was smart and made sure to transport the bodies far away from the base. 

But in the Army he'd been reasonably happy. He followed the rules and got by. Only when his Need got to be too great, when he realized how the world needed martyrs, and how sinners needed to be martyrs, did he steal off to the woman-meat markets that surround every military base on the planet and find himself someone in need of his services. 

And then…it had all come crashing down. Psychological discharge, what a crock of shit. He'd thought at first that they knew of his Plans, his Need. But no, they just thought he was a lunatic. Three years into a four-year hitch, he was declared mentally disabled and sent back to the States. On his return, he discovered that his grandmother had died and had specifically disinherited his mother. All the better, he thought. Although Mother had done one thing for him: she had assured him a place in heaven with other martyrs. Now, he would give back to others what she had given to him. He was embarrassed to say he didn't remember Grandma. He hadn't seen her since he was five or so. But he had some money and he now had a house. Paid off. All his.

He moved into the house and went to school on his GI benefits, which he still had. He learned about computers. Soon, the antique tables and heavy oak furniture hummed with cast-off equipment. He had an entire network in the house, router, cable modem, the works. He could check his email from the toilet if so he chose. 

The house had an excellent basement for his work. He was good with his hands and some of Grandmother's furniture was easy to adapt. A heavy dinner table, for example: he simply installed eyebolts and voila. He put a lock on the basement door. And occasionally he would go out on the prowl and someone else would come to Glory down in his basement. He made it a rule to stay with them as they went. Maybe he might see Elijah in the great fiery chariot. 

He still had the book, of course. It occupied pride of place on a bookshelf he had dragged down there. Occasionally, he would go down to his basement and read by candlelight in the reek of blood and rotting flesh. There, one woodcut caught his attention: it detailed a martyr who was being stabbed in the stomach. The caption read: _Martyr whose belly has been cut open and the liver torn out, which the heathen used sometimes to eat._

At the time, he had wondered if there were others like him, and the lightbulb had gone off. Everyone knew of Hannibal Lecter's exploits, of course. He would have given anything to talk with Dr. Lecter, to see what the man knew of martyrs and heretics and heathens. It would have been astonishing. But Hannibal Lecter was dead, gone on to whatever worlds lay beyond this one. 

But when Susana was caught, he wondered if it was a sign. Surely she must be like him, she must understand him. At first, though, he had done nothing but watch and wait for a Sign. That sign came when he was watching TV over dinner, eating alone as always. Susana Alvarez Lecter was being led into the courtroom in chains. He had dropped his spoon and watched, his eyes wide. 

The TV commentator had been saying something about how Susana's citizenship status was murky. She was the child of American citizens, there was no doubt of that. But she had never attained American citizenship. It was claptrap, but only he saw the sign in it. Paul had been a Roman citizen all this time and the jailers had put him in irons. So it was with Susana. She was an American citizen by birth, and they had put her in irons too. How clever of God to plant the sign that way. 

And then…if he needed it any clearer. Being called upon to see her. Walking into the cellblock and watching her through the tiny observation window. Speaking with her through the tray slot. God wanted this. God had closed the mouths of the lions against Daniel and God would open the jail doors and free Susana Alvarez. For it was meant to be, and she would be with him. And so it had been.

He finished the beer and put it carefully into the trash, so that the glass bottle would not clink. He tiptoed up the stairs to his bedroom door and glanced in again. She was curled up in his bed, sleeping peacefully. A thin moonbeam crossed in from the window, and in her face he could see that social-worker woman from so long ago. Her hair too, where it had grown in from the dye. 

He'd gotten what she asked him to get her. Most of it made perfect sense: hair dye, clothes, that sort of thing. More important was that she was here. She was weak now, and she needed him. That made him feel powerful: for so long he had needed no one and no one had needed him. Well, except his martyrs, of course. He was up to this responsibility. He would care for her until she was well. She was wearing it, and he smiled.

She had been surprised at the nightgown. Black silk, short and a bit tight. He had bought it at a local lingerie store, blushing furiously all the while, the pink and white striped bag hot in his fist as he left, the heavy perfume cloying in his nostrils. It made him feel nervous and swimmy. Never once had he done such a thing before. A sin. It was a sin. No, it was just a gift, and she seemed surprised and delighted. 

He toyed with the idea of going in and lying down next to her. But no, he could not. That was wrong and a sin. That would wait until they were man and wife, joined in the eyes of God, one flesh. And black eagles would fly and blood would flow in the streets and there would be a Great Martyring. And on her he would beget a generation of heathens and heretics, and the images that flowed through his mind would be carved into woodcuts to last another fifteen hundred years. A great kingdom in which there would be martyrs after martyrs, with himself and Susana as King and Queen. The Lecters of the future would be his children. He rather liked that idea. And their Kingdom would have no end. 

But not yet. He would have to suffice himself with the remembered screams of his victims and the imagined scream of martyrs yet to come. He'd waited all his life. A bit more could not possibly hurt anyone. 

He tiptoed back downstairs and lay back on the couch. He doubted he would sleep tonight, but eventually he drowsed off. Big things were coming. 


	6. In Her Footsteps

            The condominium complex was peaceful as night fell.  It was not as ritzy an address as the townhouse that Susana Alvarez had called home, but it was clean and quiet and pleasant.  It was also affordable on an FBI agent's salary.  Unit 252 was like most other units in the complex.  On the first floor, a reasonably sized kitchen and living room.  A stairway led down to a finished basement area for entertaining.  Another stairway leading up led to a bathroom and two bedrooms.   The larger bedroom was Lisa Starling's.  The second she used as an office.  

                And that was where she was now, seated in front of her computer.  In the flickering light of the monitor, she was checking her personal mail and chatting with friends.   It was getting late, and she had work in the morning, but it was pleasant enough to chat.  Her eyes flitted about the room.  Next to a picture of her family on the wall hung a set of handcuffs on a wooden plaque.  Those handcuffs were the ones she had locked two months before on the wrists of Susana Alvarez Lecter.  

                She heard the roar of an engine outside and automatically recognized it.  A cop car:  big-block Police Interceptor.  That surprised her: it was a quiet neighborhood, and the police weren't out here much.  Maybe it was some domestic call.  As the sound grew louder, she padded over to the curtain and pulled open the curtain.  What she saw made her start in surprise.  

                Two Alexandria cruisers and an unmarked car had pulled up in front of her condo.  She saw a uniformed officer hop out and run up to her door.  He began banging on it lustily with his flashlight.  Quickly, she ran downstairs and opened the door for him.  

                "Agent Starling?" he said hurriedly.  He gave her a slightly odd look.  She knew why: the flannel pajama pants and T-shirt weren't exactly glamorous.  

                "Yes, that's me," she said.  "Is something wrong?" 

                From the unmarked car padded the large, bulky form of Don Quincy.  Lisa blinked at him in surprise.  He seemed strained and nervous.  He glanced around the kitchen and then gestured for Lisa to follow him into the living room.  

                "What's all this about?" Lisa asked.  The uniforms were looking at her emotionlessly.  Chief Quincy cleared his throat and sat down on the sofa.  Part of Lisa wondered if she should be offended, but he looked like something horrible had happened to him.  

                "Lisa," Chief Quincy said, "do you know why I'm here?" 

                Lisa looked from the uniforms to him and back.   They were looking at her neutrally, not the way most cops look at each other.  It made her nervous.   

                "No!" she said.  "Should I?" 

                "What do you know about Susana Alvarez?" 

                "That she's a killer, she's my cousin, and she's in jail," Lisa snapped.  Then she remembered she was talking to her boss and took a deep breath to calm down.  "I mean…we got her.  She's in jail."   

                Slowly, Quincy shook his bald head.  "Not anymore." 

                The bottom dropped out of Lisa Starling's stomach.  "She…she escaped?" 

                Quincy nodded.  "She was taken to the hospital around seven or so tonight.  Emergency appendectomy.  When she woke up, she overpowered her guard somehow, got her uniform, and waltzed out of the jail ward."  

                Lisa started.   _She's out.  She's out.  Oh God, she's out.  _

                Quincy continued.  "And…we were wondering what you might know about it."  

                She blinked, not understanding the question.  Hadn't they come and told her?  "Uh…wait a minute," Lisa said.  She observed how their carefully neutral stares hid their suspicion.  Hid it well, but not entirely.  "Are you accusing me of helping her escape?" 

                Chief Quincy sighed calmly and spoke very carefully.  "Your name was on the visitor's log at the jail today," he said delicately.  "According to the lieutenant in charge of her block, you asked to visit her and gave her something." 

                Lisa's jaw dropped.  She could feel the pouches of a kangaroo court pressing in on her.  She opened her mouth and then closed it.  She could feel the automatic suspicions of the suspect rising up in her and fought it off.  She hadn't done anything wrong.  She couldn't make them think she had. 

                "Her mother had just died," she said.  "I felt like I had to tell her.  And I gave her a radio.  That's it, just a little radio she could listen to."  

                The look of carefully maintained neutrality on Chief Quincy's expression did not change.  A flash of anger coursed through her.  

                "It was just a cheap little radio," she snapped.  "It was on the list of things they were allowed to have.  I didn't give her anything else, just that."  She felt herself beginning to pant.  

                "We have to ask," Chief Quincy said calmly. 

                Lisa closed her eyes and tried to calm down.  She wondered if this was how Clarice had felt all those years ago, when she, too, had been wrongfully accused.  She had to make them believe her.  

                "No.  I visited Susana to tell her that her mother had died.  And I gave her a radio.  Nothing else.  I didn't give her appendicitis.  If you'd like, you can search the house and check my phone records, whatever you like."  She rose.  "I'll get changed and head over to the hospital, see what I can find."

                "Are you sure that's a good idea?" Chief Quincy asked. 

                "Are you asking me or ordering me?" Lisa parried.  "Remember, I was the one who tracked her down in the first place.  On Susana Lecter, I'm the best source you've got."

                Quincy sighed.  "Lisa, you've never given me cause in the past to doubt you.  So all right.   I'll allow it." He rose then and stared her down solemnly.  

                "But you'll have to give a statement eventually.  And if I ever do have any reason to think you had anything to do with this…if she got to your head, or if you felt sorry for her, or if you helped her out in any way…you know what I'll have to do."  

                Lisa nodded and tried to avoid storming as she ran upstairs.  She hauled out a pair of slacks, a blouse, and a jacket.  One of the deputies followed her upstairs.  She turned and glared at him as he stood in the doorway of her bedroom.  

                "I don't think you need to watch me change," she snapped. 

                The deputy shuffled.  "Um…no.  I just wanted to make sure you were OK with us searching the house.  And…well, if you think she might come after you,…well…we can make a call.  Get some people over here to stand watch."  

                Lisa thought for a moment and realized what he meant.  Law enforcement was a brotherhood of sorts, and when one of their own was threatened, police officers stood together to ensure that they were protected.  Her anger began to dissolve.  He was only trying to help.   

                "Thank you," she said calmly.  "Now, if you'll excuse me."  She closed the door firmly and got dressed.  Her Glock and ID were on the nightstand.  When she came back downstairs, Quincy was standing and resolute.  

                "Starling," he began quietly.  

                "I know," she said.  "I'm her cousin, I'm a suspect.  But I didn't.  Now let's go catch her."  

                On the ride over to the hospital, Lisa was quiet.  Quincy supposed she was still angry about being questioned about the escape.  Actually, she wasn't.  The deputy's words echoed in her mind. 

                Would Susana come after her?  She wasn't sure.  They had tangled in the past, but this was the first time Lisa had ever managed to track her cousin down and arrest her.  She'd seemed to be getting by in jail.  But when Lisa had told her about her mother, she'd seen Susana's self-possession crack.  From here on out it was uncharted territory.  

                Lisa Starling had studied her cousin as closely as she could, and she was pretty sure that Susana would not try to get her.  _Get her—it was a much more pleasant way to think of it.  For one thing, Susana had greater problems than Lisa Starling.  If she'd escaped, she would need money, ID, transportation, clothes – the list went on and on.  Plus, she'd just had surgery.  No, the smart thing for Susana to do would be to get what she needed, lie low, and get back to Argentina.  She'd be safe there.  _

                But she couldn't be headed back there _now.  What Lisa had to figure out was what her cousin was doing now.  Every hour that Susana remained free made it less likely that she would be recaptured.  How had she done it?  Where was she now?  _

                The entrance to the jail ward was a flurry of uniformed police and FBI agents.  Lisa slid through the maze of tall men and managed to find Lieutenant Kelly McNeely, dressed in borrowed surgical greens, sitting down in a chair.  She held a paper cup of vending-machine coffee in both hands.  Lisa could sense her anger and shame almost immediately.  It made sense:  a dangerous inmate had escaped on her watch.  The lieutenant's eyes met Starling's without sympathy.  

                "Hello, Starling," she said.  She sounded tired.  

                "Hi," Lisa said, and tried to smile conspiratorially.  It didn't feel right.  "What happened?" 

                Lt. McNeely sighed.  "I've already made a statement," she said briskly.  Lisa's expression did not change.  The lieutenant sighed.  

                "Oh, all right," she said.  "After dinner, a sick call went out.  I went in her cell, she was sick.  Brought her down to the infirmary.  They said she was sick so I brought her here.  Kept an eye on her all the time, right until they brought her in to have her appendix out.  After that, I cuffed her to her bed, left her alone for a minute to get some coffee and call for relief.  When I came back, she asked me if she could go to the bathroom.  Next thing I know, she's out of the cuffs, they're on me…then I woke up.  She got my uniform, my gun…everything." 

                Lisa nodded sympathetically.  "What else did she get from you? Weapons-wise, I mean."  

                Lt. McNeely's face tightened.  "My gun.  My uniform.  Baton and pepper spray."  She shook her head.  "I should have called for relief before she woke up," she said bitterly. 

                Lisa shook her head.  "Actually, you did right," she said.  "She must have liked you."

                Lt. McNeely let out a short, bitter chuckle.  "Funny way of showing it." 

                "No," Lisa said.  "She'd still have tried and she'd probably have succeeded.  If it was someone else she'd have killed them without blinking.  She let you live."  

                A bemused expression came over the lieutenant's face.  Lisa glanced around the ward and headed to the room Susana had occupied for all of ten minutes.  A forensics team was going over it.  One of them had the ink tube from Susana's improvised key in a plastic bag.  Lisa asked for it and looked at it critically.  

                "Where's the rest?" she asked quizzically.  

                "Probably in the cuffs," the forensics tech answered.  He held up another plastic bag containing the handcuffs.  When he shook it, there was a very faint, but audible, rattle of plastic against metal.  "It's jury-rigged, but it worked."  

                Lisa nodded.  She wandered out into the hallway again, her eyes staring at nothing.  She tried to tune out the copnoise around her and began to think.   Profiling is half about being able to walk a mile in the shoes of the killer you seek, and Lisa did that now.   Pretending to _be Susana was more than she could deal with, so she simply spoke to her cousin as if she was right there with her.  _

                _OK, Susana, she thought.  __Here you are.  You're free. You're out.  She headed down the hall and out of the jail ward.  A few officers watched her go curiously.  Her face was smooth and slack, all of her attention turned inside.  _

                _You're out, but you don't know how much time you have.  You've got the walkie-talkie off her belt, but even that will only give you five minutes notice or so.  And you're armed.  But you're not going to want to fight a last stand, are you?  Not if you can avoid it.  _

_                Another hallway crossed the one she was in.  Lisa noticed that this hall went to elevators up to the surgical floor.  Had Susana gone there?  Sought out a set of scrubs and a surgeon's mask, perhaps?  That made sense – they would be looking for a woman in a police uniform, not a doctor's scrubs.  But Lisa had her doubts.  _

                _Maybe you did, she thought, __but if you did, you just stuffed the scrubs in your shirt or down the back of your pants or something.  McNeely wasn't wearing a jacket, so you don't have one.  And you wanted to keep the weapons you have, didn't you?  You wouldn't be able to tote the gun around with you in scrubs.  No, I don't think you went after another set of clothes.  You want out of here as soon as you can.  _

_                She walked down the hall slowly.                  A sign directed her to various hospital departments.  There was nothing Susana could have wanted in radiology, urology, or pediatrics.  The two words below those would have interested her, though.  LOBBY and PARKING.  _

                _PARKING, Susana.  That's where you went, wasn't it?  You've got money somewhere, I know you do.  More than I make in a year in an easy to tap account, if I know you.  But you don't have it **now, and you don't have access to it now either.  You knew what you needed was a car and some cash, and the easiest way to get it would have been the parking garage.  The uniform would've given you cover.  **_

_                Lisa strolled out to the parking garage.  It was lit with an ugly yellowish light from arc-sodium lamps overhead.  She could hear them buzz in the late-night stillness.  Had you seen her, you might have thought she was either lost or under the influence of drugs:  she walked around slowly, with no sense of direction.  But the opposite was true.  Lisa Starling's eyes crept over the asphalt of the parking garage, moving slowly back and forth.  _

                There.  There it was.  A splotch of blood right out in the open.  If you hadn't been looking for it—and most people would not have – you'd have thought it was just paint or grease.  But Lisa knew better.  She walked up to it and squatted by it.  The faint, coppery aroma told her what it was.  And it was still _wet.  It hadn't been long.  _

                Lisa stood up and cocked her head.  

                _OK, Susana, you coshed somebody and took his car.  Obviously you took the body or hid it.  Now, the question is, where did you go?  You didn't know how much cash your victim would have, although you probably picked a target who would probably have had a lot of cash.  You know we're going to investigate any murders or robberies matching you in a two-hundred-mile circumference.  _

_                You wouldn't stay here.  No way.  You got in the car and you drove away.  Just like your father…but wait.  Wait a minute.  You knew that eventually we'd find out whose car you took.  Might take us a while, but we can send out cars to the addresses of every ER patient treated in the last couple hours if we have to, and we will because it's you.  But if you steal another car, or kill someone for theirs, you'll just be leaving us a track to follow.  And you know that.  _

                But this is the area you know best.  You've almost always been in the DC area, except for Chicago, and we never could prove it anyway.   I bet your accounts are here or somewhere not far from here.  Where you could get to them quickly in an emergency.  You're hurt and you're weak and you've been in jail for the past two months.  I bet you're going to play it conservatively. You'll wait to taunt me until you're in a position to. 

_                First principles, Susana.  Just what your father loved saying so much.  What do you need?  Not money or ID, that's somewhere where you can get it.  What do you need right now, Susana?  Right this minute?  _

_                After a moment, it came to her.  _

                _You need a hidey hole.  Somewhere where you won't be disturbed and you'll be able to get some sleep.  It's been a big night for you, Susana.  Somewhere where you can rest.  In the morning, you'll go for your ID and money. So where do you go?  You've got no money for now.  You've got a car, but you know the clock is ticking on that.  You're not going to chance it, your freedom is too delicate right now.  _

_                A difficult riddle indeed.  Perhaps she was giving Susana too much credit.  Perhaps pain and desperation would drive her to do something stupid.  But it really came down to this: Susana was penniless, weak, and all alone.  Where did she go?  What did she think of?  _

                An idea slowly trickled into her mind as she stood and pondered in the dank ugliness of the parking garage. 

                _What if she wasn't all alone? _

                The idea was plausible.  Lisa didn't think McNeely had done it – she was currently being heavily grilled by the FBI as Lisa stood out here thinking.  But Susana had money, lots of it.  The FBI had no real idea how much money she had, but they knew that it had been a few million when Dr. Lecter got his hands on it many years ago.  A hundred thousand or two for someone to hide her for a short time would be nothing.  Maybe some guard who was having trouble making the mortgage payments, or maybe an inmate who had been released that day and needed a grubstake.

                But if that was how it happened, then the deal had to have happened very recently.  Appendicitis came on quickly.  It would have been today or yesterday, at the earliest.  Not even Susana would have known before that.  

                Lisa walked back into the hospital, towards the jail ward.  Her stride was purposeful and quick.  As she passed through the lobby, she saw the lieutenant still in her surgical greens, talking with another FBI agent.  They were standing by a large black car as they spoke.  Lisa buttonhooked towards them.  She was fortunate and caught them before they left. 

                "Lieutenant," she said urgently. 

                Kelly McNeely sighed.  "I'm exhausted, Starling.  Can this wait?" 

                Lisa put up her hands to show no offense.  "Just one question, then I'll leave you be.  Did Susana have any visitors?  Who did she talk to in the past twenty-four hours?" 

                Kelly sighed.  "You." 

                "Other than me.  Any inmates released between then and now that she spoke to?" 

                Lt. McNeely shook her head.  "Not on her block, no." 

                "Any guards you might suspect she might have offered a bribe to?" 

                McNeely sighed, exasperated.  "No. Susana ignored any of the CO's on the block.  Except me.  I was the only one worthy of speaking to her, apparently." 

                "Any other jail personnel who talked to her?" 

                Kelly McNeely was quite exhausted by then, and all she wanted to do was get home and into her own clothes. She wanted the blonde FBI agent to bug off and leave her alone.  Especially since she couldn't shake the idea that none of this would have happened if Lisa had not appeared on the cellblock.  It was incorrect and she knew it, but in times of great stress, it is easy to rationalize.  

                "No," she said.  "No other jail personnel." 

                "After I told her that her mother was dead, no one else spoke to her."  

                McNeely gritted her teeth.  "I sent in some people from the jail ministry," she said.  "But she wouldn't talk to them."  

                The other agent, a man Lisa didn't recognize, held up his hand.  "Agent Starling?" he asked.  "I've got to take her home now.  You can question her later."  

                Lisa pawed through her pockets and gave the lieutenant a card.  "If you think of anything, call me.  Anytime.  You know how dangerous she is." 

                Lt. McNeely nodded.  "I know," she said softly.  Then she was in the car, a great barrier of glass and steel separating her from Lisa, and she was gone.  Lisa couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.  

…

                He awoke early . He always did.  Sloth was a sin.  Besides, she would need to eat when she woke up.  He knew what to feed her when she woke up. She had told him last night.  A clear liquid diet: broth, soda pop, juice, gelatin.  She was still asleep.  He resolved to give her a bit of time more to sleep:  it had been a hard day for her.  

                He set up two places at the table.  That seemed strange.  It had been many years since two people sat together at this table.  The one in the basement, yes, but that hadn't been to eat.  He stared at the two plates curiously for several moments.  

                He was hungry himself.  He wanted something hearty.  Bacon, sausage, and eggs.  But that would be wrong.  She'd have to smell it and not be able to eat it.  No, no, that was no way for a man to treat his future wife.  Even though the Bible stated that the man ruled over the wife, he had to be a good and just ruler.  He would be a good husband, he knew. Susana would come to accept his dominion as a good wife should, content in his fairness.  

                So he made up some chicken broth from a can.  He would have made it from scratch if he knew how, but this would have to do.  He hummed as he worked, heating the broth in a saucepan and pouring apple juice from a glass bottle into the two tumblers.  He had made the Jell-O last night, after she had called but before he met her, and it was ready.  He carved it with a knife into wiggly shapes and stacked them neatly as he could on the plates.  The knife diving through the red gelatinous mass looked like it was in a pool of blood.  

                Blood was salty.  He wondered if Susana had ever drunk blood.  He had.  Could she have it now?  No, it wasn't clear.  And his last victim was a few month ago, the blood could not possibly have kept that long.  There would be plenty of time for that.  

                There was a metallic screech from above, and then a sound he did not place at first.  He walked upstairs carefully and quietly.  His feet were silent on the risers.  He knew this old house well, knew where it squeaked and where it did not.  The bathroom door was closed, and he could hear the shower running.  That was what the sound had been.  He had never heard the shower come on from outside of the bathroom before.  No one else had used the shower since he came to live here.  She was awake, then. Good. 

                  But she took her time in the bathroom.  Awfully long.  He thought back to mother, who used to curl up vomiting in the bathroom for hours when the DT's got too bad.  He stood silently next to the door, as he had in the past, and listened for the telltale sounds of cursing and vomiting.  He heard neither.  But there was a smell coming from the bathroom that he did not recognize.  He could hear her in there, humming as she did something.  Then the snap of rubber.  He had used rubber gloves before, down in the basement as he brought someone to Glory, and he knew very well what handling things while wearing rubber gloves sounded like.  

                He went back downstairs and waited.  He could see kids playing outside through his front windows.  They happily shrieked and ran, completely unaware that they lived in a world of pain and torment ruled over by a God who loved such things.  But by the time they reached the age of majority, they would learn. Everyone would.  

                He heard her coming down the stairs and glanced up.  What he saw made his jaw drop.  She was there, all right, a bit pale and looking a bit weaker than before, but she seemed happy.  But her hair was no longer the half-black stripe it had been while the dye was growing out.  It was red.  A far darker shade of red than the County Cork red of her prior jailer, but red nonetheless.  Several shades up the scale from her normal color, and a few shades lighter than her mother's had been.  

                She was wearing the jeans and oxford he had bought her.  The sizes had been right, and she looked good.  Her feet were bare.  He wondered if the sneakers he had bought displeased her.  

                "Hi, Luke," she said, smiling.  "What are you staring at?  The hair?" 

                Luke Taylor nodded.  "Yes," he said.  "How did you do that?" 

                She raised a quizzical eyebrow at him.  "Miss Clairol," she said.  "Remember? The dye I asked you to get?" She chuckled.  "I wanted that for a reason, you know."  

                He struggled for something to say.  He had never bought anything for his hair other than Prell concentrate.  "I thought it took longer," he said to avoid looking stupid.  

                She shook her head, still smiling.   "Is that food I smell?"  

                He nodded.  "Come in.  It's all ready."  

                He was starving, and Susana ate readily enough.  He watched her carefully.  She seemed quite comfortable in the house, fitting into it as easily as if she had lived all her life there.  There was an odd pleasure in simply watching her at the table, watching her face turn animated, those odd maroon eyes flash at him.   It was hard to tune in on what she was saying.  He loved her smile.  The effect of that flashing, animated mouth had an effect on him he had trouble identifying.  It made his head feel swimmy and sent waves of forbidden thoughts down into his groin.  He shifted in his seat to avoid making it obvious.  Could she see?  He didn't think so and hoped not.

                "I need to tell you something," she said, and her face became more serious. 

                "What is it?" Luke asked.  

                She took a moment to compose herself.  "Well," she began.  "You've really done a lot for me, and I really appreciate it.  But,…" she seemed to gather her courage.  

                The old resentments and anger came back.  Sulfurous flashes lit his eyes.  Again.   Abandoned again. Was she no better than the rest?  Leaving him?  Abandoning him?

                "But what?" he asked, his voice thickening.  

                "I need to leave for a bit," she said.  "I have some things I need to take care of.  And I don't think you should go with me." 

                His eyes narrowed.  His hands twitched.  He knew how strong she was, but he knew he was stronger, and if he got his hands on her neck it would only take one quick jerk and she would never leave him.  

                She could sense his displeasure.  "Luke, I don't want to hurt you, and I swear I'll come back," she said.  Her voice was placatory.  "But…," she looked down at the table.  "I have to bury my mother."  

                There was that.  He could have cared less about his own mother, but he knew that she would not feel the same way. Besides, although he had never met Clarice Starling, she had already done him one great boon: she had borne the woman who would become his wife.  He sighed.  

                "How long will you need?" he asked guardedly.  

                "Two weeks, maybe three," Susana said promptly. That was good.  It was when they hesitated that they might be lying.  He knew this from questions he had asked his martyrs in the basement.   "Legal stuff and all, you know." 

                "I could come with you," he offered.  

                Susana shook her head slowly.  "Thanks, it's a nice offer," she said calmly, "but we can't be seen together yet.  I'm still wanted, you know."  He could understand _that.  This lovely creature seated across from him would be wanted by anyone.  But he knew what she meant.  _

                "We have a mission, you and I," Susana continued.  She reached across the table and put a hand on his cheek.  It sent prickles down his shoulders and into his legs.  She smiled sweetly just for him.  "Isn't that more important than this?  Besides, they'll be looking for me.  If they find me with you we'll both end up in jail.  Then…well, you know what will happen then."    

                "I know," he said, afraid to say any more lest his voice begin to jig-jag like a teenage boy's.  

                "Good," she said.  "Have some patience. I'll call you when I can.  And we'll be together soon, so soon.  It'll be over before you know it." 

                "All right," he said, although disappointment still clouded his voice.   

                "That's my boy," she said, and leaned across the table.  Her hands settled on the back of his neck and tugged him towards her.  She could not know the courage he summoned up to let her do it.   Her lips pressed against his and his eyes widened.  He could smell faint fragrance and warm girl.  He trembled.  

                She broke the kiss and smiled at him, seemingly amused.  "All I need from you right now," she said, "is to drive me to Baltimore."  

                He nodded, his eyes far away. Already he was trying to bury himself to avoid the disappointment of returning to his lonely vigil.  But he had to be strong.  He had a mission, she was right.  A Plan.  He had waited his whole life for this.  Surely he could wait another few weeks.  

                So they went out to the car. Susana noticed that he was quiet on the ride.  She almost wished she hadn't abandoned the Audi, but there was little choice.  She'd met him in a bad section of Washington DC, and left the Audi on the street with the keys visible on the seat.  It was almost assuredly in a chop-shop by now.  

                In Baltimore, he let her out in front of a small, slightly down-at-the-heels house in a blue-collar neighborhood.  The house had not been occupied for years.  Its owner of record was the Charles Larrimore Trust.  The trust was managed by a local law firm, who made sure to pay the miniscule tax, electric and heat bills.  The trust had been set up years ago by Dr. Hannibal Lecter in one of his many identities.  If you had asked the law firm, they would have told you that they received a yearly check for their services from Charles Lattimore's daughter Samantha.  Any more they could not have told you if they wished, for neither Charles nor Samantha had ever existed anywhere except on paper.  

                Susana smiled at him calmly and reached across the seat to give him a kiss goodbye.  

                "I'll call you," she said soothingly.  "I know you're upset, but this will all be worth it.  I promise."  

                Luke was still deep into himself, not wanting to let his feelings show, and nodded.  "All right.  Have fun."  He didn't like where his thoughts were going.  He closed his eyes and concentrated on his Plan.  The Great Martyring.  

                Susana got out of the car and walked around to the back of the house.   It was protected by a burglar alarm system, top of the line.  The only way in or out of the house was the back door.  The front door was permanently closed.  Steel bolts driven into the doorframe ensured that.  

                The back door itself was steel, and locked.  There was no key.  Susana opened the screen door and immediately heard a small electronic chirp.  In the doorframe was a small keypad, and she tapped out a code on it.  The alarm chirped again in a higher-pitched tone.  She entered a second code and waited for a moment.  

                A click and thunk came from the door, and then the door opened.  Susana walked through into the house.  She closed the door behind her and locked it from the inside.  This house had been one of several that her father had owned.  Thankfully, by putting them in trusts, it made for zero hassles on her part – unlike human beings, trusts do not die.  

                The master bedroom was largely empty.  There was a twin bed against one wall, and that was all the furniture there was in the room.  Susana went for the bedroom closet.  To the naked eye, the closet appeared empty, except for a claw hammer lying on the floor against the far wall.  She picked up the hammer and considered.  

                Unlike Luke, she meant no violence with this hammer.  Not yet, and certainly not here.  Instead, she simply consulted her memory palace for a set of blueprints.  The hammer came down, deliberate and precise, into the drywall at the back of the closet.  White dust puffed up in the circular gouge.  Susana reached into the hole she had made and pulled away, making it bigger.  

                In the hole was a clear plastic bag tied to the wall stud.  Susana eased it out and sat down on the bed to examine it.  In the bag was a black leather Coach purse and a small zipper bag.  The purse contained identification for three separate identities.  The small zipper bag contained fifty thousand dollars in twenty-dollar bills.  

                Susana rose and headed out to the attached garage.  It was a one-car garage, not terribly big.  The Honda Accord inside took up most the space. It wasn't anything like the cars she normally preferred, but she needed anonymity now more than luxury.  And the Accord would be comfortable enough for the short term.  

                Once she had taken the car, the house would no longer matter.  If Luke was caught, or if he betrayed her, it wouldn't matter.  None of the identities in her purse had anything to do with with the house's supposed owners.  Luke Taylor might have his Plan, but Susana had her own, and getting caught was not one of them.  

                The car's registration and insurance were all up to date and in complete accordance with Maryland state law.  But it needed some work.  She attached the battery charger to it and set about preparing it.  Mostly, it was a matter of filling fluids:  gas, oil, wiper fluid.  Tedious, but not difficult, and she was up to the task.  The tires seemed okay.  

                Susana tossed her purse into the passenger seat and pressed the garage door opener clipped to the visor. The garage door obediently rattled up.  The Honda started on the first try.  Susana backed out carefully into the driveway.  The engine sounded choppy and growly from disuse.  But it would clear up.  

                From above the visor Susana took a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on.  The garage door rattled closed.  She backed out into the street and drove along the quiet suburban streets until she made it to I-95. And then Susana Alvarez Lecter merged onto the highway and disappeared.  She headed north.  


	7. Feeling Better

__

Author's note: This chapter took a while, longer than I intended. Work proved to be busier than I expected. But here we are. This is a first: it's not the first time I have based a character off a fellow Lecterphile, but it is the first time I kill one off. It shouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who either. 

The Toronto places I picked out from showmetoronto.com. Any major goofs are my own. It's a great city, but it's been a while since I was last there. 

Also special history-geek points to whomever can identify Susana's alias and why she would have picked it.

The Four Seasons Hotel in Toronto is a five-star hotel, offering some of the most luxurious accommodations that money can buy. Its pride and joy are the Yorkville Suites, large luxury suites ranging in size from 745 square feet to the largest at 2,150 square feet – the size of an average house. This largest suite is a sumptuous L-shaped suite on the 16th floor, with a breathtaking view of the city. A baby grand piano was available for those piano players who can afford the suite. It is signed by some of its most famous players – entertainers and celebrities. 

And for the past two weeks, it had been the home of Susana Alvarez Lecter. Although Susana knew how to play the piano – her father had insisted on piano lessons during her girlhood – she did not autograph the piano herself, even though her playing was quite good and remarked on by those who heard it emanating from the closed suite. She could now fully understand why her father had once been willing to trade a woman's life for a view. After the tiny cell and its slit in the wall they called a window, she insisted on leaving all the curtains open, enjoying her view of Toronto with a new appreciation. She would occasionally walk up and down the suite, glorying in the sheer ability to move around. 

Toronto proved to be a wonderfully cosmopolitan city, capable of fulfilling the tastes of a woman who had been raised wealthy in Buenos Aires, another wonderfully cosmopolitan city. The Four Seasons was excellently located for Susana: on Avenue Road, not far from Bloor Street, in Yorkville. Both culture and couture were available for Susana's consumption. After two months of forced deprivation in jail, her appetites were prodigious. She was able to indulge just about any taste she wished. Susana liked very much to shop. In that as in many other ways, she was her father's daughter. Chanel, Versace, and Hermes were all conveniently located on Bloor Street, and she went after them, along with others. For dining, there was Soto Soto Trattoria, Le Trou Normand, and Morton's of Chicago. Some of the time, Susana preferred to relax in her suite with a good book and a bubble bath. Steven Temple Books provided her with a taste of home she had not expected: South American literature. The staff was quite willing to assist her in making sure there was chocolate handy in the suite, when she wanted it: either Godiva's or LeFeuvre's, a local brand she quite liked. 

There was also one other important fact about Toronto that made it an excellent place for Susana to recuperate from her incarceration and illness. Toronto was a Canadian city, not an American one. Under the terms of an extradition treaty signed around the time that her father had once eaten a prison nurse's tongue, the Dominion of Canada could refuse to extradite her back to the United States, since she faced the death penalty. One less thing to worry about while she recuperated her strength.

Her self-indulgence had come at a price. After fleeing Virginia, she had made her way slowly north to Toronto, stopping off in Buffalo to pick up some painkillers and antibiotics. Buffalo was also convenient for picking up other medical supplies that she wanted, but she didn't like the city: it was very bland and industrial. She only went there when she absolutely had to. It would have been much more convenient to do that shopping in Toronto, but Susana was not familiar with the Canadian medical system and did not want to draw attention. She was having too much fun as it was. 

She hadn't stayed in Toronto the first night. Instead, she'd gotten on the last plane to Buenos Aires and slept as she passed over the country that had held her captive. She'd been vaguely nervous that the plane might have to land in the US. The travel agent she had used had already thought her crazy, demanding a flight from Toronto to Buenos Aires with no American connections. It wasn't until the first leg was over, when the big Boeing had finally landed in Mexico City, that she had finally relaxed. 

Her mother's funeral had been hard, but Susana was determined to pay the last respects to her mother. She deserved no less. Now they were together, mother and father forever in the earth next to each other. A few of the socialites in Buenos Aires knew of Susana's arrest, but they believed her when she said she was free. Argentina was, after all, a country which had pardoned its former military rulers, whose crimes outpaced even Susana's. She'd spent three days in Buenos Aires, long enough to wrap up the legal details. There weren't many. Clarice Starling's will was exceedingly simple: except for a small bequest to the University of Virginia, the Lecter fortune was all Susana's. 

Susana knew, on one hand, that the most sensible thing to do would be to stay in Argentina. There, she would have the ability to hide in plain sight. She had a vast fortune and could well afford to drag out any legal attempts to return her to the US for the next thirty years. Alternatively, she could move to Europe or to any other South American country. 

But Susana also knew that the FBI would continue to pursue her no matter what. Right now was the most dangerous point: they were enraged at her escape and would stop at nothing to see her back in that cell. In order to get herself some breathing space, she had to hobble them now, a swift decisive blow that would cripple their ability to pursue her and give her some breathing space. And Susana Alvarez was also angry. She had been incarcerated. Confined. Deprived of her rights. No one did that to her and got away with it. Her father would have disapproved of it, but her father was not here. Susana had never shared her mother's urge to save the lambs, but she had inherited her mother's competitive nature and drive. It irked her that the FBI had actually caught her. They would pay.

She was sitting on the couch in her suite, watching TV and munching on LeFeuvre's chocolate-covered cherries. She wore the terrycloth bathrobe that the hotel provided its guests. A bottle of wine stood on the table by her couch, a wineglass beside it. The Four Seasons was proud to offer its guests CNN, and she made it a rule to catch it every night or so. Problems in the Middle East; like that was anything new. The President was signing some bill or another. Argentina was in financial trouble again. All the same old, same old. 

She was surprised to see her own face appear on the screen next to and above the announcer. His voice was blasé as he spoke.

"Sources in the federal government state that alleged killer Susana Alvarez was sighted in Buenos Aires. Federal officials stated that extradition requests would begin immediately. Miss Alvarez escaped from a federal facility two and a half weeks ago. She is the daughter of former FBI Special Agent Clarice Starling and madman Dr. Hannibal Lecter, who also escaped custody in Memphis many years ago. Miss Alvarez is considered armed and extremely dangerous." 

Susana made a face at the TV. "Miss Alvarez," she scoffed to the empty air. "Lecter, if you please. Dr. Lecter." 

For a moment she had to laugh. Correcting the TV. But there was even a bit of luck here. Susana had been arrested in Virginia, and she had taken to sunbathing while she lived there. She'd dyed her hair black as well. The result was that the woman in the mugshot looked noticeably Hispanic. The only things truly Hispanic about Susana Alvarez Lecter were the surname she had been born with and her country of origin. Ethnically, she was Scotch and Irish on her mother's side and Lithuanian and Italian on her father's. Two months locked away from the sun had restored her normally fair skin, and the hair dye – plus a refresher, courtesy of Andre Pierre Hair Salon—had kept her hair a dark burgundy shade. The woman in the bathrobe looked no more Hispanic than she did Chinese. Hopefully, with a bit of luck, cosmetics, and contact lenses, she would evade notice unless attention was called to her.

Despite herself, she found she missed Luke. He was a decent enough type, and he'd been useful. The obsession with religion was a little tiresome, but he'd served her well. It might have been nice to tour Toronto with him. But he had work to do. While she was here, safe in her hidey-hole, Luke would serve to inflict the first wound Susana planned to inflict on the FBI. 

But first, she had to send him a sign. His obsession with martyrdom made that an easy choice. Susana meant to send him two, just to make sure the sign was received. He already knew to monitor the Toronto papers. First came a practice, then came the actual sign. 

She checked her watch. Seven o'clock. Time for her practice. She knew exactly what she wanted to do. She dressed quickly and then checked her equipment. Her Harpy was clipped to her waistband, although she did not think she would use it. A leather sap went up her sleeve. She stuck a paperback book into the pocket of her suit jacket. Her last piece of equipment, this time, was an immense suitcase. It was the biggest one that she had been able to find at the Bay. Susana thought it would do. 

The United States of America last went to war with Canada in 1812, fifty years before the Canadians were granted their home rule. Since then, peace has reigned between the two countries. But if there has been an American invasion of its northern neighbor, it has been a financial and commercial one. McDonald's and Pizza Huts dot the landscape of Ontario. Fords and Oldsmobiles cover the nation's highways. American merchandise and American stores are easy to find in Canada. 

The latest salvo in this commercial invasion was a small one, all things considered. Shawn Irons, a romance novelist, was visiting Toronto on a book tour to promote her latest book. Her works consisted of the impossible romance, in which love conquered all. Half-jokingly, she was referred to by the New York Times as 'The Queen of Goo'. Her latest book featured a rogue FBI agent who was forced to choose between her career in the FBI and a dapper, handsome serial killer. 

Susana knew exactly who this was based on, and she was vaguely displeased with it. There was no way she could go after _everyone_ who had ever made a buck off her parents. But fate had decided this one. Shawn Irons's publisher had wanted to keep her happy, and so they had booked her into one of Toronto's nicest hotels. Specifically, the Four Seasons Toronto. Luke would have told her that the Hand of God meant for her to do this. 

Besides, the cherries were very very good, but she needed some real food too. And eating in tonight suited her mood.

So she walked easily with her empty suitcase down the hall to the elevator. Convenienly, Shawn Irons's room was two floors below Susana's. That was for the best: there wasn't much traffic, which meant she would be less likely to be seen. There was only one other person on the elevator, and they paid Susana no heed. 

Susana proceeded to Shawn's hotel room. She pushed the suitcase against the wall by the side of the door, so that her prey would not see it. She plucked the paperback from her pocket and knocked on the door. 

Shawn Irons opened the door and looked out. She seemed tired. She was significantly taller than Susana: around six feet. She had brown hair and eyes and a muscular build. This might be a bit more of a challenge than Susana had thought. 

Susana smiled sheepishly and held up the book. "Hi," she said calmly. "I'm really sorry to bother you, but I wanted to see you at the book-signing at Chapters and I wasn't able to get there in time." 

Shawn smiled tiredly, realizing what it was about. "Sure," she said automatically, and turned around to get a pen. Just in case there was anyone nearby who might hear, Susana kept up a line of patter. 

"Oh," she said, "I just love your books, especially the one about Rachel and the pirate," she chattered. "And I just _begged _ my husband to bring us up here, but then there was just _awful _traffic on the bridge coming over and the car got a flat tire on the QEW." She sidled quietly in the door. 

Ms. Irons seemed not to be listening. When she turned back to face Susana, she had a pen in her hand and a tired smile. She reached out for the book and took it. Automatically, she flipped to the first page of the book. 

"Sounds like you've had a rough time," she sympathized, smiling tiredly. "Who should I sign this to?"

Susana smiled. "Susana Alvarez Lecter, if you please." 

Shawn Irons looked vaguely confused, having heard the name on the news. That wasn't surprising, as just about anyone who had not been in a cave for the past few months had heard the name Susana Alvarez and knew she was the daughter of Dr. Lecter. Susana struck. 

She pulled the sap out of her sleeve and stepped forward. She pivoted as she struck, landing the blow high on the temple. Shawn Irons fell to the ground, her eyes dimming. Susana jumped on her, pinning her down, and struck again with calculated force. It was enough. The woman fell back against the floor, unconscious.

Quickly, Susana opened the door and grabbed the empty suitcase. She opened it and laid it on the floor next to the unconscious author. Shawn Irons was a tall amazon of a woman and it was not easy for Susana to force her into the suitcase. 

She took some pleasure in noting that she was able to easily lift the woman and get her legs arranged in the suitcase. Her strength was back. Good. By bending the limp woman in half, she was able to get her in the large suitcase and zip it shut. Susana lifted the suitcase and headed out into the hall. Fortunately, it had wheels and an extending handle, and it was not difficult at all to maneuver. 

Shawn was quiet on the ride up the elevator and back to Susana's suite. The nylon sides of the suitcase moved not at all. Back in the suite, Susana opened the suitcase and hauled the limp author over to a hand truck she had purchased at Canadian Tire earlier in the afternoon. With a roll of duct tape, it was a simple matter to secure her down. 

Susana wheeled the truck over to the far end of the suite, away from the door. She had spread a plastic dropcloth out and covered it with a sheet in order to protect the fine carpeting. Carefully, she brought the truck over to the center of the dropcloth. The truck came with wheels on the back, so Susana was able to lower it to the ground. Her tools were already set up. She uncapped a hypodermic needle and stared at the gleaming silver tip thoughtfully for a moment before injecting its contents into Shawn Irons's arm. She would feel no pain from what was about to happen. Vivaldi played on the stereo, turned down low. It lent an odd calm to the suite.

Not far from where the hand truck sat was a table. On it stood a place for one with the best china she had been able to find. At the other end of the table was a portable burner of the type that used LP gas. Susana preferred cooking with gas: she believed that the food heated more evenly. On the burner was a steel pot whose contents were bubbling away. A strangely pleasant, hunger-inducing aroma emanated from the pot. 

Shawn Irons began to stir as much as a woman virtually mummified in duct tape could. Susana walked over to the bound woman and looked down at her curiously. 

"You're awake," she said calmly. 

Shawn Irons stared at her with fear-filled eyes. She mumbled something. The strip of duct tape over her mouth prevented her from speaking clearly. 

"I didn't catch that," Susana said. "I'll tell you what, though. I'll take that tape off your mouth if you agree not to scream." 

Shawn stared at her for a moment or two more, then nodded. 

"Now see that you don't," Susana said. "Because if you do, I'll have to perform a laryngectomy on the spot. Do you know what that means?" There was a small endtable next to the truck with her tools laid out on it. Susana selected a scalpel and waggled it at her. Shawn nodded fearfully. 

"Good. It means I'll cut out your larynx," Susana explained tartly. "Which in turn means that the next time you go on tour to promote your mooshy books, you'll need one of those cancer kazoos. The medical term is _e-lec-tro-larynx._" 

Shawn tensed against her bonds, but did not otherwise react to the threat. 

"Are you going to be good?" Susana inquired. 

After several moments, Shawn nodded. Susana leaned down and pulled the tape away from her mouth. 

"What are you going to do to me?" Shawn asked in a frantic whisper. 

Susana chuckled and shrugged. "Who can say," she said easily. "I wanted to ask you a few questions, that's all." She brandished the book. 

"Your latest book," Susana continued. "About…," she turned it over and looked at the back cover. "Let's see. 'The Cries of the Sheep, by Shawn Irons.' 'Her duty made her bring him to justice. Her love made her bring him into her heart.'" She brandished the book in front of the bound woman. "We know who this is about, don't we?" 

"It's…not about anyone," Shawn said quickly. "It's a work of fiction." 

"That's _my_ mother and papa," Susana said archly. "You've seen me on the news, I imagine." She bent over and introduced herself to her victim, something she had not done in a long time. "I'm Susana Alvarez Lecter," she said. "Just as I said downstairs." 

Shawn Irons was silent for several moments. Susana watched her try to think of something, anything. It was always so amusing to watch her victims in these last few stages. They would tell her anything she wanted, anything at all, and their minds scrambled to avoid the penalty they knew was coming. 

"It was a tribute," she said finally. "A tribute to them." 

Susana flipped open the book and paged through it. "They didn't _kiss_ in Memphis," she said pedantically. "They touched. Just fingers. I should know, I had to hear about it growing up whenever Mother started getting all misty-eyed at dinner. And here. Papa didn't just break the necks of his guards. It was much gorier than that. He beat one of them to death with a baton. Like this one," she said, holding up the one that she had taken from Lt. McNeely. It seemed out of place, a tool of brute force in the elegant suite. Shawn flinched. 

"He also put blood and skin and an eye from them on his own face in order to get away," Susana said sharply. She made a pulling gesture at her own eye as if to demonstrate. Shawn appeared nervous. 

"I'm not into all that gore stuff," she said desperately. "It's supposed to be mooshy. That's what I do. That's what my readers want." 

_Not for long, _Susana Alvarez Lecter thought. Dismissing the woman's pleas, she put on a pair of latex gloves. Carefully, she laid down a scalpel and three hemostats on Shawn's stomach. Shawn began to pant when she saw them and drew in a long, hissing breath. 

"No screaming," Susana said, waggling her finger. She drew her finger across her throat. Shawn exhaled in a long breath. 

"I've given you an anesthetic," Susana continued, "so this won't hurt…well, physically, at least." 

She made a slow, deliberate incision in Shawn Irons's stomach then. Blood welled up around the incision, but did not spill over onto the hand truck. Carefully, Susana retracted the flaps of her incision and stared down thoughtfully into Shawn Iron's exposed abdominal cavity. 

"I'm famished," Susana said thoughtfully. Any doubt that Shawn Irons might not have known what she meant was erased by the look of horror that came over the bound woman's face. Susana peered down thoughtfully and moved her intestines aside with a finger. 

She found what she was looking for and carefully inserted the hemostats. The wet sounds of moving around Shawn's internal organs contrasted oddly with the metallic click as Susana clamped off her pancreas. With two quick cuts of the scalpel, it was free. Susana lifted the dripping organ out and placed it on a dish. She returned to Shawn's side and took the thymus next. Together, these organs were known to meat processors as the sweetbreads. A tasty dish indeed when prepared properly. 

"No, no, don't get up. I'll cook this myself," Susana said graciously to her captive. 

She washed her hands quickly, then soaked the organs in fresh milk and rolled them in breadcrumbs. A wire basket was attached to the side of the pot, and Susana put them into the basket. The pleasant aroma from the pot wafted out. Susana put the basket in to cook and then turned back to her captive. 

"Doesn't that smell good?" she asked. 

Shaking, Shawn shrugged. Not an easy task for a woman whose arms were bound to a hand truck with duct tape. 

"Do you know what this is?" Susana asked, her eyes gleaming. 

Shawn Irons shook her head and tried to look down at her stomach, as if gaze alone might restore the organs currently cooking in the pot. 

"Rendered chicken fat," Susana explained breezily. "Kosher, you know. Are you Jewish?" 

"No," Shawn Irons said breathlessly. 

"Nor am I. Some of my father's colleagues in Argentina were, though. Rendered chicken fat is kosher. Do you know what they call it?" Susana smiled obligingly, elegant hostess to her captive guest. 

"Does it matter?" Shawn said, more animatedly than Susana would have expected. She smiled coldly, displaying even white teeth to her captive. 

"Schmaltz, Ms. Irons," Susana said calmly. "Rendered chicken fat is schmaltz. Do you find that appropriate?" 

Shawn Irons did not answer at first. Her face was beginning to twist in discomfort. The anesthetic was beginning to fade, and the pain beginning to shoot up her nerves. Susana's head tilted as she observed the changes coming over her captive's face. She seemed interested. After letting Shawn feel it for a moment or so, Susana smiled calmly. 

"From your face, I take it you're in some pain," Susana said sweetly. 

"Yes," Shawn husked. "It hurts." 

"Of course it does," Susana riposted. "I just removed your sweetbreads, it ought to. Don't worry, though. I can make the pain go away, too." 

A shadow play crossed Shawn Irons's face: pain, suffering, and the obstinacy of the dying. She was hurting, but did not want to give the monster the pleasure of having to ask. But finally the pain won out, and she nodded. 

"Yes," she said in a dry voice. Susana nodded. Shawn could have survived longer, at least until the clamps were undone. Or until her body finally called upon the organs no longer present. But Susana could show mercy, after a fact, and she did. Besides, she still had to eat and she had other things to do tonight.

From the table she took a shoulder-length veterinary glove and slid her right arm into it. It clipped to her jacket to hold it on. Susana Alvarez Lecter did not want to get blood on her new suit. Once protected, she squatted down next to her helpless victim. 

"This will just take a minute," she said soothingly, and plunged her arm into the incision up to the elbow. A horribly wet, gristly sound came from the sound of jostled organs. Shawn Irons clamped her eyes shut and panted. Susana's questing hand reached up, up through the ribcage. Her eyes were far away, concentrating on her task. Fortunately, Shawn's ribcage was roomy enough that she was able to reach what she sought. 

There it was. Susana could feel the walls of Shawn Irons's heart beating in her hand like a small, terrified animal. From the pale, shocked look on her victim's face, Susana knew that Shawn knew what she was doing too. Experimentally, Susana squeezed the heart, just a bit. Shawn let out a faint sob. Susana hesitated, fascinated by the feeling of power that holding a living heart in her hand gave her. Helplessly, Shawn Irons's heart beat in Susana's grasp for another thirty seconds. Then Susana firmed up her grip, let out the breath she'd been holding, and ripped the heart free. 

She breaded the heart as she had the sweetbreads and then put it in to cook. She had a busy night ahead of her. She glanced at the laptop she had bought two days ago and was grateful for the hotel's LAN. Once dinner was over, she had to get moving. They were meeting soon.

The wine she had chosen for her meal went well with the meat. Susana allowed herself five minutes stretched out catlike on the couch. She felt content again. Complete. Better than she had felt ever since her arrest. She felt renewed.

But she still had a schedule to keep. Susana carefully wrapped the corpse of Shawn Irons in the sheet, piled her shopping bags around it to keep the maids away from it, and picked up the phone. She dialed a quick number. 

"Valet parking," a voice said calmly. 

"Yes, hello," Susana said graciously. "This is Mary Surratt up in the Yorkville Suite. I'd like my car brought around to the front, please." 

"It'll be there in ten minutes, ma'am," the voice said equally graciously. 

"Thank you so much." 

Susana headed out of the suite and downstairs to her next appointment. 

…

He was tense. Tense and nervous. The house seemed so empty, so devoid of color. It had been two and a half weeks since Susana had left. How much time could she possibly need? Had she abandoned him? Had she traded him to the police for her own freedom? Was she ever coming back? 

For the first week or so he had been all right. His days followed the same routine before she had come into his life. He got up, went to work, put in his eight hours, and then went home. He got occasional calls from the ministry, where he had volunteered ever since he had gotten out of the Army. He usually went. It kept him busy. 

On the second week, he was called to the jail ministry on the weekend. That was more stressful. He expected they might recognize him. But no, same as always, first a few of the male cellblocks, then the female. That lieutenant had simply looked at him and waved him in. He had gathered in the dayroom with the others, singing about the glory and praise of the Lord. Only once had he looked down the block at the tiny cell she had once occupied. Part of him had wanted to go down there and stand where he once had stood, quietly telling her of his Plan and hearing of her plan in return. 

He had always wondered if the jail might turn him up an accomplice. Some of the people there were being held for violent crimes. Surely someone there had to understand his Plan. But most of the violent ones were men, and they were not allowed to attend the ministry sessions. The one person in his life who did understand him had come from the jail, but now she was gone. He was stuck where he was before, going through the motions of his life. He had a foreboding sense that she had left him for good, and that gave rise to dark, unpleasant thunderclouds roaming through his mind.

Eventually, as he became more and more irritable, he knew what had to be done. A martyring. He was always calmer and more at ease after bringing someone to Glory. He had wanted to wait for her, but the need was too great. It was a shame. She would have appreciated this one, and he was quite proud of the way he had set it up.

It is said that anything a person might want to buy can be found on the Internet. Luke Taylor had turned to the Internet in order to get what he needed to accomplish this means of martyrdom. There were many companies on the Web that were able to supply him with what he needed. He'd bought these things several months before and hidden them away in his basement until it was time. 

Finding someone to bring to glory had been as simple as it always was. He'd gone out clubbing to find himself a suitable victim. He didn't really like the clubs: the beat of the music was too loud and there were way too many people for his liking. It reminded him of how many sinners there were in the world. People who needed him to be exalted. It was smoky and smelly. A den of sinners. 

But he had patiently honed his hunting skills, and it wasn't terribly difficult to convince one of them to come back to his house with him. A small young thing, curly brown hair, just pretty enough to be unremarkable. He had already forgotten her name by the time he got her in the house. Already fairly drunk from the club, she was easy prey. One solid whack and he was able to drag her unconscious form into the basement. Here, he prepared her for martyrdom. 

The iron chair was not quite the same as the one he had seen in the woodcut. But it was metal and heavy and he believed it would do. He'd fixed a leather strap at the top to hold the neck, which would hopefully hold the head. Unlike martyrs of old, she did not know what her fate would be. 

He'd also found an old wood-burning stove in the basement. It had been disconnected and unused when he found it. But he was handy, and it wasn't hard to hook it up and attach a pipe to his chimney. He found coal for it and had lit it before he left. The coal was bright orange now, heat banking from the stove in a shimmery haze.

And in the stove was the third part of his plan. A morion helmet. He'd found it on a website that sold reproduction helmets. Clearly, he thought, this had to be a sign that there were other heretics hard at work in the world, bringing more martyrs to Glory. He'd been obliged to tear out the leather lining. But the helmet was busy heating in the stove. It should be red-hot shortly. 

She was tied in the chair, whimpering and crying. This did not please Luke. In the woodcuts, the martyrs were all calm and peaceful, accepting their fate with equanimity. But he knew from experience that modern martyrs did not always act so bravely. 

"Please," she said, trying to twist her head to where she could see him. He sighed. It was easier if they didn't look. He had been considerate and faced the iron chair away from the stove, so that they did not have to watch. Tears streaked her face and smeared her eye makeup. Her jaw trembled. "Please don't hurt me. I'm only nineteen. I don't want to die." 

He didn't answer. Instead, he opened the heavy iron door of the stove and checked the helmet. It was glowing red-hot. He looked around for his tongs. There they were. 

__

"Plee-heez," she wept. "Just let me go, I swear I won't tell anyone. My parents will pay you. Anything you want. I swear to God, mister." 

He said nothing. His eyes slitted against the heat as he reached into the stove with the tongs. They grabbed onto the morion with a metallic clink. 

"Why won't you even talk to me?" she said in a voice reaching high in the registers with panic. "Come on. PLEASE." She sobbed for a few minutes. "Just don't hurt me…please..anything you want…I don't want to die, I don't want to die." 

He hauled out the helmet. It glowed red, an angry red eye in the dankness of the basement. He took a moment or two to admire its savage beauty. Martyrdom. Glory. He opened his mouth and felt dried spit break as he wet his tongue. For the first time since he had tied her to the iron chair, he spoke. 

"Do you believe in God?" he asked, his voice raspy with disuse.

She tensed against the ropes then. "I guess so," she said in a teary voice. Then he crossed around her. He held up the helmet, glowing red like the eye of a malevolent god. When she saw it , she started to scream, great wordless shrieks that rattled off the wooden doors and ancient windows of the basement. She threw herself forward and back in the chair as much as the bonds would allow. He took a step forward. 

"Go in peace," he said, and lowered the red-hot helmet to her head. The scream rose to an ear-splitting pitch. He could barely recognize it as human. The basement was filled with the stench of burning hair and flesh. He trembled a bit. The screaming hurt his ears. But the effect was marvelous. The helmet did not touch her mouth, and so she was free to continue screaming. Even as the red-hot metal charred and burned her flesh, cooking it down to the bone, she screamed. She screamed long past the point he would have expected her to finally give in. 

But give in she did, and Luke Taylor spread his arms wide in the basement. He inhaled deeply of the smell of blood and iron and burnt flesh and hair. He could almost sense her soul rising to glory. He glanced down at the sad, ruined body. But that did not matter. She had died for her faith. Exalted. He could feel the energy of her passing thrumming through him.

The wave of energy faded from him, and he looked down at her again. In the morning, he would have to clean up. But that was OK. Luke smiled, feeling an inner peace he had not felt since Susana had left. He bounded up the stairs of the basement, taking them two at a time. He felt better already. 


	8. The Sign

                _Author's note:  Yes, here we have the other three Special Guest Victims.  Hopefully they will be pleased with their literary ends.  They're certainly gory enough.  Oh yes, this chapter is VERY gory. A big thank you goes out to Tikky, Saavik, and Saladin, our own Canadian Kamikaze Squad, who volunteered to be Susana's victims during her vacation in Toronto.  (Also thank you to Steel, who nobly sacrificed herself in Chapter 7 for the noble cause of Susana's dinner.)  _

_                But on with the show, I'm sure you're curious how our northern Lecterphiles met their ends…_

The empty warehouse sat in an industrial part of the city.  No one bothered to pay it much heed.  A few months earlier, the business in it had gone bankrupt.  And Toronto was a large enough city that the woman in the tailored Chanel suit was not paid any real attention to as she picked the lock of the door and headed back to her car.  A few people walking along the sidewalk saw her, but assumed she was a lawyer or official having something to do with the business's bankruptcy.  So they watched her open up the large bay door and drive her car inside, but forgot about it right away.  

                Susana Alvarez Lecter drove the Honda into the empty warehouse.  She was not alone.  Two young girls were in the back seat, eying her fearfully as she got back into the car and pulled it forward.   They were Teri and Reann, both inhabitants of Alberta, here visiting Reann's uncle in Toronto.  

Reann was shorter than her compatriot – five foot four versus five foot nine.  Both had brown hair, although Teri's was streaked with red.  Both wore glasses and T-shirts.  Both were bound with plastic handcuffs and looked frightened.

It had been rather easy to find victims.  Susana knew well that her father had been the _bete noire of the Internet since before she was born.  Web pages and groups devoted to Hannibal Lecter were easy to find.  She'd bought a laptop, set herself up with a free email account, and set about joining a few of them.  After prowling through a few of them, she had found herself some victims.  Teri and Reann had posted that they were excited to be visiting Toronto and had asked if anyone else on the list was going to be there.  One other person had replied, and Susana already had her name and would be dealing with her next.  Unfortunately for all three, Susana Alvarez Lecter was also in Toronto.  _

                The two girls looked fearfully over the warehouse.  It didn't look like anything other than an abandoned warehouse, a big empty space where the ghosts of old pallets were marked on the floor. 

                "What are you gonna do to us?" asked Reann.  Her shoulders strained at her T shirt as she strained against the plastic strips binding her wrists.   Susana had fastened them on both girls before putting them in the car.  

                "Weeeeell," Susana said thoughtfully, "you two…you two are going to help me send a message." 

                "If we do, will you let us go?" Reann asked.  

                Susana thought about it and nodded.  They'd come down eventually, sure enough, and Reann had not specified that they would be alive when let go, so it wasn't lying, now was it?  She grabbed each girl by an arm and marched them forward.  Above them ran a ceiling beam.  Fortunately, that was all she needed.  They didn't fight her.  She'd showed them the gun when she kidnapped them from the diner they'd arranged over the Internet to meet at, but it was still in the car.  On the waistband of the skirt, however, was clipped Susana's Harpy.  She didn't have it out, but they knew it was there, and so they were relatively easy to control.  

                She sat both girls under the beam and took out two ropes from her purse.  Teri flinched when she saw them.

                "What are those for?" she asked. 

                "Questions," Susana said brightly, "always questions.  Curious little thing, aren't you?  Pick a number between one and ten, girls.  Then I'll tell you what it's for."

                "Three," Reann said.

                "Eight," Teri offered.  

                "Teri was closer," Susana smiled.  "You win, Teri.  So you get the choice.  Hands or feet?"

                "For what?" Teri asked, fright evident on her young face. 

                Susana chuckled and shook her head.  "I'm afraid you'll just have to find out," she said calmly.  Almost absently, she flipped back the edge of her jacket and put her hand on the Harpy.  Teri flinched.  

                "Well?" Susana prompted.  "Or shall I choose for you?" 

                Teri did not want to lose the one choice she had regarding what was almost assuredly her rapidly impending demise.  She cast a look at Reann as if to ask for help.  Then she cast an imploring look up at her calm, implacable captor.   Seeing no sympathy in Susana's cruelly amused expression, she looked down at the floor.  

                After a moment or two, she reluctantly said, "Feet."  

                "All right," Susana said calmly, and squatted to tie the girl's ankles together.  She heard Reann shift and turned to look at her.  She waggled a finger.  

                "Tut-tut," Susana said.  "You weren't trying to get away, were you, Reann?" 

                "No, no," Reann said quickly.  "Not at all."

                Susana tossed the end of the rope over the beam and firmed up her grip on it.  A pulley would have been easier, but there wasn't one handy.  And it wasn't terribly hard at all to hoist young Teri up into the air, hanging head-down in space.  She whimpered once but that was all, squirming a bit to try and gain purchase on thin air.  

                With Teri incapacitated, Susana turned her attentions to her other prisoner.  She swiftly bound Reann's wrists, and bound them to her waist.  Then she threw the rope over the beam, and hoisted Reann into the air next to her compatriot.  An indignant shriek escaped the shorter girl's lips as she swung, bent double.   

                "I know," Susana said comfortingly, "it's not very comfortable.  But think of poor Teri for a moment, why don't you?  She's hanging upside down."  She crossed over back to the car and popped the trunk.  From it, she carried over two circular free weights, the types that attach to barbells.  T  She stood between her two victims.  Their cries and pleas bothered her not a bit as she threaded a rope through the center hole of each weight.  

                Then she tied the first weight to Reann's ankles.  Fifty pounds of weight sufficed to prevent her from kicking.  Reann let out a pained grunt, glaring at Susana with pained eyes.  The other weight was neatly tied around her neck.  Reann swung back and forth slowly, her muscles screaming against the weight.  The weight on her neck pressed against the back of her neck, so it did not choke her, but it made her quite miserable.

                "Please," she husked.  "Don't hurt us.  We never did anything to you.  If you let us go, we won't tell anyone…not me or her…we won't go to the police,…"  

                Susana shrugged.  "That's true, I suppose," she said without much interest.  "Well, you know, if this was a friend of mine doing this, he'd be asking you if you believed in God about now."   She crossed back to the car and took a final item from the trunk.  When she walked back to the bound girls, her arm was behind her back and her eyes sparkled with faux good humor.  

                "Now Teri," she said in tones of crocodile sympathy, "I'm sure you must be jealous of all the attention your friend got there."   

                The blood had already begun to rush to Teri's head as she was suspended upside down, but she was still aware enough to shake her head as Susana approached.  She tried to flinch away, but there was nowhere to go.  A terrible knowledge filled her eyes.

                From behind her back Susana produced a hammer.  Teri shrieked in terror when she saw it and tried to dodge out of the way as best she could.   Like a bizarre carnival game, Susana tried to hit her victim with the hammer and Teri tried to swing herself away from her tormentor.  The dull _whock of the hammer hitting flesh and bone was counterpointed by the girl's screams.  It was a game Susana ended up winning.  Eventually, Teri hung limp and dead from the beam.  _

                Reann tried to flinch herself when Susana drew nearer.  It was difficult to flinch with a fifty-pound weight around her neck and another on her ankles, but still she flinched.  Susana smiled prettily. 

                "Oh no, don't be scared," she told the young Canadian.  "I'm not going to use the hammer on you.  That's not part of your fate."  She reached into her jacket pocket and took out a piece of paper.  Printed on it was a picture that duplicated the fate of the two girls.  "Looks like all you do is hang there until you die, i Well, that's harsh."  She reached up to the rope around Reann's neck and deftly flipped the knot.  Slowly, the slipknot around the girl's neck began to tighten.  Reann squirmed uncomfortably, her face a mask of misery.  Susana could see the terrible knowledge of her impending death in her eyes. 

                "The more you squirm," Susana said informatively, "the quicker it tightens."  She smiled coldly.  "But I'm afraid my schedule's too full to watch you.  If you're still alive when I get back, let me know."  

                Reann turned her head as much as the weight would allow.  Her breathing was labored as the weight hanging from the noose around her neck began to slowly tighten.  The image of Susana getting back in the car was slowly beginning to be covered with white sparkles dancing in the corner of her vision.  By the time Susana backed the car out of the warehouse and was back on the street, Reann had already lost consciousness. 

                Susana headed back to the diner in which she had first met the two.  The third should be there now:  she had to work and had arrived there later.  The diner was busy, with dishes clanking and voices creating a din. That was good: people would be less likely to pay attention to her.  Calmly, she looked around.  

                She spotted a girl sitting by herself in a booth, looking around at people as they entered the diner.  She was tall – taller than Susana – and had brown hair and gray eyes.  Her body language made it clear she was waiting for someone.  Susana walked up to her booth and smiled.  

                "Hi," she smiled.  "Are you Meagan?"  

                The girl nodded.  "And you are…," 

                "Mary," Susana supplied.  "Mary Surratt, from the list."  She sat down across from the girl in the booth.  

                "I wonder where the others are," Meagan said thoughtfully.  Susana smiled. 

                "Hanging out, actually.  I had something I wanted to show them.  Something Lecter-related." 

                Susana watched the young woman's eyes light up.  For a moment she wondered why it was so many people were so endlessly fascinated with her father.  Conspiracy theories, web pages, Ebay auctions of his letters and works.  It annoyed her to some extent:  everyone considered him some type of monster, not the loving father he had been to her.  

                "Can I see it too?" Meagan asked animatedly.  "What is it?" 

                "Kind of a secret," Susana allowed.  "I'm not supposed to have it here, you know?  But yes, if you'd like, I'll take you to see it." 

                Meagan appeared to be considering it.  Susana smiled patiently and waited.  Eventually, the younger woman nodded.  "OK," she said.  And so it went.  The ride back to the warehouse was short, and Susana only let on a few hints about her supposed piece of Lecter memorabilia.  Just enough to keep Meagan's interest piqued.  This time Susana simply drove right into the warehouse.    She'd left the door open – the girls were out of sight of the door.  

                Meagan saw the corpses of the other two girls swinging slowly in space.  She stared at them in horror for just a moment, realizing just what had happened.  Her jaw hung slightly open, her gray eyes wide with shock.   Susana quickly crossed around in front of the car.  Meagan turned to flee, to run as fast as she could away from the two dead girls swinging from the beam.  But just as she shook off her horror and fear and prepared to run, Susana's hand clamped down onto her upper arm. 

                Binding the young woman took only a moment or two, and then Susana had to figure out what she was doing next.  This just wasn't her style of killing, but he wouldn't do what she wanted him to unless he got his sign.  And Susana had learned to adapt to her circumstances.   

                _Here you go, Luke, _she thought.  _Here's your sign.  _

                "Let me go," Meagan implored.  "What are you doing?"  

                Susana grabbed the collar of the young woman's jacket and hauled her over to a pole supporting the beam from which Reann and Teri were suspended.  She didn't answer until she had tied a rope around Meagan's chest to the pole.  

                "Sending a message," she said smoothly.  Then she walked across the room to a table and took a plastic bag from it.  The plastic bag bore the insignia of a Buffalo medical-supplies company on it. From this, Susana took a thicker plastic bag, a tube, and a needle.  She walked back, her heels clicking ominously against the concrete floor, and squatted behind Meagan.  

                Carefully, she cut a small piece away from the jacket and the shirt beneath it.  A small square of Meagan's skin was visible, and Susana could see a short section of her spine.  Perfect.  She did not speak as she prepared the needle and tubing.  The girl let out a grunt of pain as Susana sank the needle carefully between the vertebrae of her spine.  Then Susana stood up and walked around to face the girl, wiping her hands as she did. 

                "I know that hurt a little," she said, "but you'll thank me for it pretty soon.  That's an epidural, just like they give pregnant women in the hospital.  But it's higher up the spine, so it'll block off pretty much everything below the shoulders."  

                She took four triangular bandages and wrapped them loosely around each of  Meagan's limbs.  In each she inserted a drumstick she had bought at a music store downtown.  Turning the drumsticks around and around, she tightened down the tourniquets until she judged that the blood flow had been cut off.  

                While the epidural took effect, Susana prepared the rest of her equipment.  She glanced at the picture she had printed off a web page and thought.  Arms four inches above the elbows – very high – but the feet were at mid-calf.  Ah well.  She hoped he appreciated her sticking to this stupid picture.  She quickly removed her suit – it was a brand new suit she'd bought at the Versace outlet and she didn't want to get blood on it.  

                When she walked back, Meagan began to scream through the gag stuffed in her mouth.  Susana tilted her head and eyed her, wondering if she was screaming at the sight of a woman in her underwear or screaming at the sight of the large chainsaw in her hands.  

                "Oh, don't worry," she said reassuringly.  "I'm not a pervert, I'm not going to do anything like that to you.  I just don't want to get blood on my clothes.  Brand new, you know."  

                It didn't seem to be much reassurance.  The chainsaw started on the second try.  Susana gunned the engine a few times and thought back to an amusingly bad horror movie she'd seen on cable TV while she relaxed in the suite.  _All I need now is tribal paint_, she thought, and then she brought the chainsaw down.  

                The whirring teeth cut easily enough through the jacket and shirt and the underlying flesh.  It took a bit more effort for Susana to get through the bone.  _Humerus_, she thought, her med-school days harkening in her mind as she carried out her grisly task.  _Greater tubercle, lesser tubercle, deltoid tuberosity.  _And then the chainsaw was through.  Susana pulled it away before the blade began to cut into her ribcage.  The severed arm thudded to the ground.  

                The other arm went much the same way, and then Susana brought the chainsaw down on Meagan's feet halfway above the ankles.  She gathered up the severed limbs and stacked them neatly in a box near the mutilated woman.  Meagan's color was an ashy gray; the epidural had prevented her from feeling pain, but she had just seen her four limbs cut off.  Emotional shock, Susana supposed.  Now for the final touch – the touch that would make this _her _murder, not just a carbon copy of some old woodcut.  

                She threw a rope over the beam far over Meagan's head and lowered one end down to the tourniquets.  It was simple to tie knots in the rope and slip the knurled heads of the drumsticks into the knots.  She tugged on the rope experimentally and then yanked the other end down hard, so that the tourniquets were held fast.  

                One hand held the rope.  The other hand dug the rag stuffed in Meagan's mouth out.  Susana replaced it with the end of the rope and squatted to look her victim squarely in the eye.  Wide gray eyes met cool maroon ones.  

                "Now Meagan," she said calmly, "the only thing holding on those tourniquets is the rope in your teeth.  Hold on very very tight to that rope, okay?"  

                Meagan was trembling.  But Susana's words echoed in some corner of her tortured mind, for she nodded.  

                "Good," Susana continued.  "Because when you let go, the tourniquets are going to come loose.  And then you'll exsanguinate.  Do you know what that means?" 

                Another nod.  

                "Good girl," Susana said, and strolled casually over to the table on which she had left her suit.  She wiped the blood off her face with a towel and dressed.  

                "I have a few things to do," she explained, "so I'm going to get those done.  I'll be calling someone to come help you, but they probably won't be here for a while.  They're coming from Washington, DC, after all.  So hold onto that rope and think pleasant thoughts." 

                An agonized groan came from behind her as she stepped back into the car.  Susana chuckled.  She wondered if the girl might actually last until help came.  Stranger things had happened.  It all depended on how much she wanted to live.  

                The other things she had to do did take Susana some time.  She gathered up her bags and the corpse of Shawn Irons from her suite.  The corpse went back to the warehouse.  The bags stayed in the car.  She headed for Le Royal Meridien King Edward, where her reservation in the name Bonnie Heady was waiting.  The suite was quite nice.  Anything at all would have been a comedown after the fantastic luxury of the huge suite at the Four Seasons, but this would do quite nicely.  

                She made a phone call to her attorneys in the States. First her criminal defense attorney, who squawked at her to give herself up before she got herself in worse trouble.  What could be worse than facing capital charges of which she would assuredly be convicted he did not specify, and Susana got bored rather quickly and hung up after telling him to do what he could do delay things. Then a call to another attorney she had hired for some private business.   She got him on his cell phone, and he assured her that he had brought up to Toronto the things she had asked him to bring up.

                Then she returned to the warehouse for a fourth time, but did not go inside.  She could hear moans from inside.  That rope must be getting mighty heavy about now, eh?  Instead, she simply crossed the street to a nearby pay phone.  Her purse was full of Canadian quarters after visiting the Royal Bank.  She had use for them.

…

                Lisa Starling was in her office at Quantico, going over some police reports and trying to ignore the misgivings in her gut.  So far, nothing had been heard from Susana.  She knew it couldn't last. It wasn't her cousin's style.  

                But Lisa had work she had to do anyway.  It is an axiom of Behavioral Sciences that there are anywhere from two to three hundred serial killers at work in the United States at any one time.  Right now, on Lisa's desk were cases from Seattle, New York City, and one here in DC.  This last one bothered her the most.  Police departments in northern Virginia and metro DC had found the dumped corpses of several young women.  All had undergone horrible tortures before their deaths.  The tortures didn't match up to each other per se.  Some had been cut up. Some had been beaten with blunt instruments.   Some had been burned.  This last one had horrible third-degree burns, but only on the head.  Lisa was trying to figure out if it was the same person doing all of them or not. He seemed to be reusing the dump sites, and the torments he put his victims through seemed to be a common point, even if _what _he did to them didn't count.  

                It served to keep her mind off the fact that her cousin was free.  That bothered Lisa Starling a great deal.  She knew very well what her cousin was capable of.  Lisa believed that the time immediately after her cousin's escape would be calm, but it would just be the eye of the storm.  Susana would find somewhere to hole up, regain her strength, get the things she wanted.  But once she was satisfied, there would be hell to pay.  

                The phone rang.  Lisa picked it up.  "FBI, Agent Starling," she said automatically.  

                The voice at the other end chilled Lisa's blood.  "Well, Cousin Lisa!  I declare, how are you?" 

                The crime-scene photos fluttered to the ground, immediately forgotten.  Lisa put one hand on her Glock and turned around, half expecting Susana to be down the hall in the subterranean corridors of the FBI.  

                "Susana?' she asked. 

                "That's me," Susana Alvarez Lecter said airily.  "We ain't talked in a while."  The accent clicked off with the efficiency of a light switch.  _I hate how she does that, Lisa thought.  "I do want to say thank you for the radio.  It was very kind of you not to forget me while I was imprisoned."  _

                "Tell me where you are, Susana," Lisa said firmly. 

                "To give myself up?" 

                "Yes," Lisa said.  "It'll go easier if you do, we've got people tracking you--," 

                "We-_hell," Susana said calmly.  "Give myself up to the FBI.  Gee Whitakers, Cousin Lisa, that sure is hard to decide.  There I've got a five by nine cell, life in ad seg, and a trial which'll end in a death sentence on my head.  Here, I've got shopping, fine dining, a suite the size of a house, the whole nine yards.   Golly gee, whichever would you go for, Cousin Lisa?"_

                "You know we're tracing this call," Lisa said grimly. 

                "I know.  Wouldn't expect any less out of you, Cousin Lisa.  And you know what?  It doesn't matter.  Catch me if you can." 

                Lisa sighed.  "I caught you once," she said.  "I'll do it again." 

                "You shore did, Cousin Lisa Lee.  You're an honest-to-God _dee-tective.  You know, I was in the Chanel boutique today – it's one of the biggest in the world here, you know – and I saw the __cutest little suit.  Thought of you right away, but I didn't know your size."  She chuckled.  "Tell you what.  I know you'll be here shortly, as soon as you can trace this call and get on a plane.  Drop by, I'll leave them your name." _

                "Sounds good," Lisa said tightly.  "I'll wear it at your trial."  

                "Now _there's an idle threat, Lisa Starling.  Well, I declare, you done gone and lost your manners since you moved to the big city and started working for the FBI.  Y'all don't treat your kin like that.  You ain't got enough to go round, now do you?" _

                Lisa reached for her computer keyboard and clicked on the 'Call Trace' icon.  The pointer hourglassed on her.  She tilted her head curiously: normally it was immediate.  On the other end of the line, Susana continued.  

                "I know you probably aren't as busy as you were since you caught me," she said.  Lisa smiled to herself:  it wasn't true.  She had plenty of work to do.  "So I tell you what, Cousin Lisa. I done gone and did somethin' I wantcha to see.  Once you trace the call, come on up and have a gander yourself."  

                Lisa closed her eyes and felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.  Susana had killed again.  She knew it.  _Oh God, who did you kill and why? _

                "See you when you get here," Susana said cheerily, and hung up.  

                The call tracer program finally came back. Lisa stared at the display tensely, feeling nervous.  Susana had said _come on up here, and so she wasn't surprised when the call tracer came back.    _

                BELL CANADA

                416-909-7510

                PAYPHONE

                TORONTO ONT

                Lisa Starling got up from her desk and ran for Chief Quincy's office. 

                …

                Susana pressed the switch on the payphone and dropped in another quarter.  She dialed another number and waited for a moment until it rang.  A voice answered.  

                "Toronto _Sun," the voice said importantly.  _

                "Hello," Susana said sweetly.  "You might want to send a reporter down to Dufferin Street."  She glanced across the street and gave the voice the number of the warehouse.   "There's something you ought to see here." 

                "What is it?" the voice asked. 

                "Nothing much," Susana said lightly.  "Just three dead girls."  She could hear the person on the other end scrabbling for a pen and paper.  

                "Three dead girls? Can you tell us anything about them?  Have you called the police?" 

                "No police," Susana admitted.  "Well…sort of.  As for what I can tell you about them…you'll just have to see."  

                She hung up the phone and strolled back to her car.  As she headed back to the King Edward, she popped in a Bach CD.  She smiled lightly.  Things were going well.  She felt much better. Lisa would be here soon, and Luke would have his sign.  


	9. Due North

__

Author's note: Well, that was fun, wasn't it? But it's time for Lisa to get some screen time, and here she be. I did some research into Toronto on the web, which is where I found out they call themselves a police service instead of a police department (they call napkins serviettes too and little girls in uniforms who guilt-trip you into buying cookies Girl Guides instead of Girl Scouts, but this chapter isn't about napkins or Girl Scouts.). As before, all glaring mistakes are strictly my own fault, I tried, mea culpa. But hey. Here we also learn the mystery of Susana's alias. The one fellow who tried – well, you were right, but there was a simpler connection than the 'irons' bit. But enough of my a/n, on with the show….

Lisa Starling rubbed her eyes as she got out of the Toronto police car and entered the warehouse. She had already been pulling a late night when Susana called with her little singing telegram. A quick call to Toronto Police Service had alerted them to Susana's call. The Toronto cops had already secured the scene and were investigating. Like most metropolitan police departments, there was a liaison officer with the FBI, and he seemed to think that having an FBI profiler up to take a look at the scene couldn't hurt. Lisa was anxious to get up there herself and try to hunt down her cousin. 

So she caught the last United flight from Washington to Toronto, at 10 PM. The flight was uneventful and most of the passengers seemed tired. Customs was its usual minor hassle. The liaison officer was there at the airport to pick her up. Nice touch. 

His name was Sergeant John Frobisher, and he was in his late twenties or early thirties. He was tall and filled out his uniform nicely. He had chiseled features and deep blue eyes. Her first thought on seeing him was that he was pretty cute. But this was a work call, not a social visit. They stopped for coffee and then he brought her out to his patrol car parked out by the arrivals gate. 

"Glad you could make it on such short notice," he said in the car. 

Lisa sipped from the espresso she had bought in the airport and sighed. "Not a problem," she said. "If it's who I think it is, she's very dangerous." 

"You think it's Susana Lecter?" he asked as they merged into traffic. 

"Yes," she answered after a moment. "It's either her or she knew about it." 

"Well, we'll get her," he said. "I've been to that,…" he snapped his fingers, searching for the name. "That National Academy the FBI does. Interesting stuff. What can you tell me about her?"

Lisa blinked at the way he said _about_. She considered and wondered how much time she had. She could go on for hours about her cousin. 

"She's…Hannibal Lecter's daughter," she began diffidently. 

"Hannibal the Cannibal, eh?" he observed drily. 

"Yes. A killer in her own right. She uses guns and knives, mostly. Have your officers on the lookout – she's killed cops before. She'll do it again without a second thought."

"What brought her up to Toronto?" he asked. He was direct. She liked that. 

"Well," she said, "she was hurt. Escaped from prison two and a half weeks ago, on July 27th. She'd want somewhere to hole up, somewhere cosmopolitan. Probably she was counting on Toronto because she could fight extradition if she got picked up. She was looking at capital charges back in Virginia."

He nodded. "Death penalty, yeah."

"She likes the high life," Lisa continued. "The best shopping, the best restaurants, stuff like that. She called me, I don't know if they told you. She mentioned the Chanel boutique. What's the ritzy part of town here? Where that sort of stuff would be?" 

He thought for a moment. "Yorkville," he said. "Chanel's on Bloor Street. A couple other fancy-dancy boutiques, Hermes and Versace, eh. You think that's where she is?" 

"Yup," Lisa said, staring straight ahead. The aroma of the coffee was wonderful, and the caffeine served to jerk her body towards wakefulness. "If I were you, I'd go to every four and five-star hotel in the city. Get a list of every single woman who's checked in since the 27th. What do we know about the victims?" 

"Not much. Two were visiting from Alberta. One of their uncles lives here. We checked him out and he seems clean. The other just moved back to Toronto, had a job and an apartment. The fourth is a Yank romance novelist. American, excuse me."

Lisa ignored it. It was irrelevant. "Any links between the victims that we know of?" 

"There is one thing. We've gone over the one victim's computer and she was a member of some online Lecter fan club. We're running down the names on the list and trying to see if we can pop up the other two. There's a diner not far away, the waitress remembers seeing the two from Alberta there. Said some lady in a suit met them and left with them." 

Lisa sat up suddenly. "Any description?" she asked immediately. 

Sgt. Frobisher shook his head. "Not worth much," he said. "Brown hair – she thought – maybe five foot two, five foot four. Let me get cracking on that list, eh?" 

He picked up the mike on the radio and called into dispatch. In the terse tones that police use on the radio, he asked for cars to go out to the best hotels and check them out. Then he turned his attention back to her. 

"The crime scene's pretty nasty, I'll warn you now," he said. "We left it up since you were coming. I don't know what you need to do your profiling, but let me know. We'll cooperate as much as we can. We want her caught too, eh. Can you get us mugshots and fingerprints?" 

"Sure," Lisa said. "I just need to make a call. Didn't they get those for you already?" 

He shook his head. "In the works, you know? I was thinking if you called you might be able to get those a little faster. FBI agent and all, you know." 

"I'll see what I can do," Lisa said. She took out her cell phone and called back to Quantico. The secretary was glad to hear Lisa had arrived in Toronto all right and agreed to send Susana's arrest records to Toronto. Lisa thanked her kindly and turned back to him as she hung up. 

"There you go," she said. 

"Thanks," he said. They had arrived at the warehouse. Cruisers were pulled up around it along with a forensics van. Wooden sawhorses prevented the curious from coming in and trampling all over the crime scene. Uniformed policemen worked busily throughout the crime scene. Lisa walked into the crime scene with Sgt. Frobisher. When she saw it, she winced. 

Reann and Teri hung silently from their ropes, their corpses being photographed by the police photographer. Meagan lay still and silent against the post. Blood from her stumps had covered the floor around her in a dark crimson pool. The rope she had gripped for so long swung free by the post, teeth marks embossed deeply into its surface where she had held on for dear life. Shawn Irons's corpse lay on the floor nearby.

A chainsaw sat on a table nearby, already in a plastic bag and tagged. Blood marred its blade in a large streak across its end. Next to it was a hammer, also stained with blood. Lisa closed her eyes for a moment as she realized what they had been used for. _Chainsaw must've been used on the one on the floor. Hammer on the one hanging upside down. The one bent over like that looks like it was just the weights that did it. She doesn't look mutilated._

One of the uniforms walked up to her with a plastic evidence bag in his hand. 

"Are you the profiler from the FBI?" he asked. 

Lisa nodded. "Yes. What've you got?" 

"We found this paper here. They're posed to resemble it. Thought it might help you." 

He handed her the bag. Inside it was a piece of paper. On the paper was a printed picture of two people bound as Teri and Reann had been bound. Two people were beating the one hanging head-down with a hammer. Just as Teri had been. Lisa frowned down at the paper. The cop handed her another one. In this picture, there were more people – one person hitting another with an axe, and two others busily engaged in sawing someone in two. Over on the right, however, was a person by himself or herself. The picture was blurry and Lisa could not tell. This poor soul had their arms amputated just below the shoulder joint and feet amputated about halfway up the calves. Just as Meagan had been.

Lisa turned around and took in the scene. The victims. The weapons. The bloodstains. Something wasn't right here. She narrowed her eyes and walked silently up to the bodies. She squatted down to look at them close up. A few uniformed cops looked at each other and wondered what she was doing. 

__

What the hell were you doing, Susana? she thought. This was wrong, somehow very wrong. The victimology was wrong. Susana had never targeted young girls. When she posed her victims, she had done so only to memorialize murders committed by her father. And she had certainly never tried to duplicate a picture before. 

And what the hell was this picture anyway? What kind of nut case would draw this kind of picture? It was horrible indeed. Had Dr. Lecter committed a crime like this long ago, maybe? He liked medieval things, and he had committed murders equally as horrible. 

Adding to the puzzle was the fact that Susana had essentially announced to Lisa where she had been and what she had been doing. The phone booth she had called from was across the street from the warehouse. The cops had prints off the chainsaw and hammer, and Lisa knew long before they were submitted that they would match Susana's. Susana had given her this one, gone out of her way to make sure Lisa would identify her as the person responsible. But the murder was hardly Susana's style. 

Lisa thought about what she knew about her cousin's style of murder. Her theory was that Susana's murders were really of two kinds. There were murders that were a means to an end, and murders that were ends in themselves. Lisa believed that virtually all the police officers Susana had ever killed – and she counted the Chicago murders that had never been definitively tied to Susana – were means to an end. Susana didn't have anything against police officers; she killed them in order to escape or to get to her main prey. Or in the case of David Jameson's murder, she had killed police in order to get their uniform and cruiser. Murders that were ends in themselves were murders like the three _Tattler _reporters, Margot Verger, Ray Herman, and Roland Mapp. 

Lisa didn't think that Shawn Irons's murder had been related to the three younger women. She had been cut on, that was obvious, but there was no picture. And Susana might have a reason for killing Shawn Irons. Her new book was supposedly about Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. Lisa Starling would have denied it through being threatened with red-hot pokers, but she was a closet fan of Shawn Irons's work. 

__

Are you copycatting someone else's style, Susana? Hard to believe, but that's all I can think. It would be a little gauche for you. Why else would you do this? You put in a lot of time and effort. Can't be means to an end for you. When you kill someone as a means to an end, you put them down quick and dirty and go about your business. I could buy Shawn Irons as you settling her account – you've done that before. But what the hell did you kill these girls for? 

What's your game, Susana? What are you trying to do now? 

She tried to concentrate on Shawn Irons. Shawn was different. She was mutilated, yes, from the large gash on her stomach, but she hadn't been posed, just dumped. Shawn was probably the key. 

"Do we know where she was staying in Toronto?" she asked Sgt. Frobisher, who had come up to watch her. 

He consulted with another officer before answering. "Yeah. Four Seasons." 

"Have we sent an officer over there to check names?" Lisa pressed. 

He checked on his radio. Lisa could hear the answer herself over the walkie-talkie on his belt. 

"Thirty names on the list," the voice said, tinny over the speaker. Lisa sighed. The next words of the voice made her happier, though. 

"Twenty-six names just got regular rooms," the voice crackled. "Three got their regular business suites. And one got the biggest suite they have there. Our perp is supposed to be into that sort of thing, eh?" 

If Lisa Starling could have, she would have gleefully teleported herself through the radio to kiss the owner of the voice. "What's that name?" she asked Frobisher, who relayed the request. 

The radio crackled briefly. "Surratt, Mary, that's Sierra-Uniform-Romeo-Romeo-Alpha-Tango-Tango."

The name gave Lisa pause. She'd heard that name before. It had nothing to do with Susana that she knew of. For some reason it made her think of high school, old Beaumont High. She asked Frobisher if he'd ever heard of it. He shook his head. 

It nagged at her the way things will when you know something but cannot remember the details. She shifted from foot to foot, muttering the name under her breath. After a few minutes, she pulled out her phone and called back to Quantico. She got Agent Witt on the line, a fellow profiler who'd been in the department for many years. Good. He might know. _Late night, _Lisa thought, glancing at her watch.

"Hi," she said. "I'm at the scene. I had a question for you. Have you ever heard of a Mary Surratt?" She spelled the name. "Can you run that name for me, maybe?" 

It took a few moments before Andrew Witt answered with a chuckle and a startled voice. "I don't need to run it, Starling. There's a conviction on record all right, but it won't be in the computer. You a history buff?"

"No," Lisa said. "Why?" 

"Well, I don't think Mary Surratt is staying at any hotels right now, Starling," he said. "That would be a good trick. She was part of the Lincoln conspiracy." 

"The what conspiracy? Come on, it's late. Throw me a bone here," Lisa said.

"All right," he grinned, seeming amused. "Remember President Lincoln? There was a conspiracy to assassinate him, not just John Wilkes Booth. Mary Surratt was part of that. Well, supposedly. But whoever's in your hotel there isn't her. She was executed in 1865. First woman ever executed by the federal government."

__

First woman ever executed by the federal government. Lisa did not know how many others there had been, but she knew who probably would have been the next. It was very Susana, she thought. Cute, erudite, and allowing her to thumb her nose at the government that was seeking her. 

"Thanks, Andy," she said calmly. "Talk to you soon." 

She hung up the phone and smiled tightly at Sergeant Frobisher. 

"Good news?" he asked. 

"Depends," she said. "Can that guy find out if Mary Surratt is still staying at the Four Seasons?" 

He nodded and radioed in the request. It took several minutes for the reply to come back, as the constable at the hotel had to ask the front desk, who in turn consulted with the hotel manager. The Four Seasons prides itself on offering the best service to its guests, but when those guests were murderers wanted by the Toronto Police Service and the American FBI, choices need to be made. Lisa Starling did not breathe until the reply came back. 

"Yep," the voice said calmly, "she's still there. Also, get this, eh, they sent a housekeeper up to her suite about ten minutes ago. She was there watching Spanish TV. Is that your perp?" 

Lisa Starling's eyes met John Frobisher's, equal blue meeting equal blue. The same sparkles danced in each. 

"That's her," Lisa said. 

"Roll it," Sgt. Frobisher ordered. 

Lisa reached out and took the sergeant's arm. "I want to be there," she said. 

He stopped and considered. "I don't know, Agent Starling. If she's as violent as you say, you know, it could be ugly."

"I'm armed," Lisa pointed out. "I'm a cop too. And you'll want at least five officers to take her down." 

"And you know you won't be arresting her. She'll have to face charges here. I can't make any promises if you can get her back." 

Lisa knew this. She'd be amazed if the Canadian authorities _didn't _want to try Susana themselves after what she had done. But that was a matter for the courts, and that was how it was done. And it made little difference whether Susana was behind Canadian bars or American ones. 

"I know," she said. "I just want to be in on the collar." 

Sgt. Frobisher heaved a mighty sigh.

"I'll bring you American cigarettes," she offered half-jokingly. He threw back his head and laughed. 

"No, no. Don't want to have to arrest myself for smuggling. All right, just stay back and let us do the actual arrest. But you can be there."

"Thank you," she said, grinning. 

The ride over to the Four Seasons was not too long, but for Lisa it seemed to take hours. She could not keep her legs from trembling in the car. She wondered what she should say to Susana when they took her out. There were several cops waiting in the lobby as they got there. Lisa tensed. _Déjà vu, _she thought. 

The hotel manager was most helpful, providing them with a key to Susana's suite and explaining that Ms. Surratt had been a guest of the hotel for a few weeks. The concierge flinched when she heard the name. Lisa could understand. Susana had probably been a demanding guest after her months of deprivation in jail. 

Slowly and carefully, five veterans of the Toronto Police Service ventured to the 16th floor of the suite. Lisa Starling trailed them, careful to keep out of her way. The hall to Susana's suite seemed a hundred miles long. There they were, at the door. One officer got in front of the door and the others got behind him, except for Sergeant Frobisher, who got ready to put the key in the lock. 

Behind them, Lisa Starling waited, her gun drawn. She was quiet and watched the others intently for any signals. The officer knocked on the door. "Ms. Surratt?" he said. "Room service." 

"OK, yes," came a voice from behind the door. "_Momento, por favor." _

Lisa's brow furrowed. Susana knew English perfectly well. Maybe watching Spanish TV had made her start thinking in Spanish. They heard bare footsteps on carpet approaching. Then the snap of the chain being removed from the door. The officers went into action. 

Sergeant Frobisher put the key in the lock. The officer in front of the door opened it and rammed his way in. The good sergeant followed him and the others slid in behind him like a well-oiled machine. Lisa headed after them, a small American caboose pursuing a Canadian police freight-train. They already had Susana down and were cuffing her. She was screaming in Spanish, something not too nice from the sound of it. 

Lisa entered the suite. It was incredibly majestic, huge and tasteful. No wonder Susana had bragged about it. But the suite meant nothing to her. The woman on the floor in the hotel bathrobe did. They were letting her up now, just as they had before. Lisa smiled, put her gun back in its holster, and crossed to face her cousin. 

She took a deep breath. What should she say? _Thought you could get away from me, huh? Where's my suit? _Or just something simple, like _You're under arrest, Susana, you know the drill by now. _

Then she looked again, and her jaw dropped. And what escaped her lips was not a witticism or a just-the-facts FBI standard, but a barely voiced expression of shock and surprise. 

"That's not Susana," she quaked.

Ana Castillo stood small and terrified, hands cuffed behind her back, the hotel bathrobe askew on her body, tears welling up in her eyes as five Canadian police officers stood around her and suddenly felt very dumb. So did Lisa. 

Ana tilted her head at Lisa, the only other woman in the room. Her eyes brimmed sorrowfully, as if to ask Lisa what she had ever done to her to deserve this treatment. 

__

"Susana?" she asked. "_Ella no es aqui" _Her lower lip pooched out like a small girl's. "_Ella fue antes." _

Lisa Starling sat down hard, her knees suddenly weak and bitterness coating her tongue like a dirty penny. In her mind, she heard her cousin's mocking laughter. 

  



	10. Apocalypse

The next morning, Lisa Starling was feeling much better after a night's sleep. Her hotel was nowhere near as fancy as the hotel her cousin had frequented. But it was clean and comfortable and it had a restaurant, and that was where Lisa was now. She was discussing the case with Sergeant Frobisher over a large breakfast. Sausage, eggs, bacon, and pancakes were piled up on their plates. A hearty meal indeed. 

"So, what did your people find out about that Castillo girl?" Sgt. Frobisher asked. 

Lisa sighed. "Not much, but enough. According to Virginia authorities, she was bailed out of jail yesterday morning. A lawyer named Roger Patterson was the guarantor. He's one of those real skuzzy types – anything for money. His secretary says he was hired to get Ana out by a Mrs. Rosenberg, and I think we both know who she is. She wired the money down to him, and he got her out."

"And he brought her up here?" 

"Probably, but we can't know for sure," Lisa said, her mouth quirking. "His dealings with his client are confidential. What did you end up doing with her?" 

Sgt. Frobisher shrugged. "We had to arrest her," he said diffidently. "Felt real bad about it, but we had to. It's a bail violation for her to even be here. And once we got a translator in she admitted she lied to Immigrations, she said she was American and she's not. She was real upset, crying, didn't understand. She said Susana bailed her out and was putting her up here. Real cooperative, but she doesn't really know squats about where Susana was or what she was doing." 

Lisa sipped her coffee for a moment and thought. It seemed quite cruel to her what Susana had done. She'd gotten Ana out of jail, true, but then the younger woman's freedom had only lasted for a few scant hours. Just enough to be driven up to Toronto, have a nice dinner, and take her place in Susana's suite. Her hopes had been raised and then smashed. 

"Don't know what they'll do to her," Sergeant Frobisher continued. "Given the facts, I'd be just as inclined to send her back to you guys and just forget charging her here. But that's up to the judge." 

"Guess so," Lisa said. "I'm more interested in this Patterson guy. He's our best shot at finding Susana. He had to be here yesterday to bring up Castillo. Maybe he's still around." 

"We'll put out an APB on him," Sergeant Frobisher said. "He'll turn up." He gestured at the newspaper lying on the table. "Looks like she made the front page." The headline screamed _MARTYR-STYLE MURDERS IN WAREHOUSE DISTRICT. _

…

It took several hours for the Toronto newspapers to be flown down to Washington, DC. But flown they were. In Washington, DC one may purchase the periodicals of a hundred different countries without raising any eyebrows at all. The diplomatic staffs of the many embassies that dot the area are usually quite fond of their home country's media. And so when Luke Taylor bought himself a copy of the Toronto _Sun _later that afternoon, no one thought anything of it. 

The sign. The sign he had been seeking. The _Sun _did not provide photographs of the victims, out of respect for the dead. The _Tattler_, however, had no such compunction. They also had the advantage of being able to hide behind the First Amendment. They were able to obtain photographs of the crime scene and gleefully printed them, along with prints of the pictures from the book that they had been based on. The _Tattler_ also knew that Susana's fingerprints had been found at the scene, and so the headline _HANNIBAL THE_ _CANNIBAL'S DAUGHTER MARTYRS INNOCENT GIRLS _screamed off the headlines at supermarkets and newsstands nationwide. 

It bothered Luke somewhat that his book had been publicized. That meant the authorities would know about it, and that might lead them to him. But there was nothing to do about it now. Except for his mission, of course. 

Jesus had twelve disciples. Luke knew this as well as he knew his own name. These twelve disciples had been reborn, but reborn in an evil light. Dark disciples, determined to hunt him down and stop him from martyring people. Bringing them to Glory. Susana had told him the night he had brought her home. He had to stop the dark disciples, so that she could return. And they would be as one flesh. 

One might make the mistake of assuming that Luke Taylor was insane. This would certainly be an understandable error, given the images of pain and fear that haunted his mind and drove him. But in fact, Luke Taylor seemed to the outside world to be lucid and rational. His co-workers found him to be a quiet man who kept mostly to himself, keeping the computer systems running at his place of work. And so Luke set out on his mission. 

At first, there was the planning aspect. Luke was up to this easily. He could surf the web as well as anyone, and soon was able to sift out the chaff and obtain the information he wanted. He also needed to decide just how he was going to do with the dark disciples. He could not take on all twelve of them at once, he knew that. Susana had told him that it would be vital for him to strike hard on his first strike. It would be harder once they realized he was out there. It would be a busy night for him tonight. 

He spent the afternoon hiding in the server room and running backups. He didn't need to be there, as it was all automated. But his bosses didn't know that. As far as they knew, the world itself would cave in if he wasn't right at the keyboard of the domain controller. That was fine by him. Made it easy to find out what he wanted, and in the air-conditioned, secure comfort of the server room.

He drew the information he needed from the Internet as inexorably as a man will drag a rope towards him. It took a while, but eventually it was all in his grasp. A list of four names and addresses. He didn't think he could possibly do any more that night. He added a fifth, but hesitated over it. Well, he would decide when he got done with the first four. Even just the four ought to slow the heathens down. 

He spent the rest of the day poring over the printouts of the pictures he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. Some men kept hidden bottles of bourbon in their bottom drawers; others kept girlie magazines; still others kept joints or plastic Baggies of cocaine. Luke Taylor eschewed these things as sinful. What he kept in his drawer were printouts of the images that had graven themselves into his mind since that day at fifteen when he had found the book. 

He needed quick martyrings, and that displeased him. Yes, a simple knife to the throat or even simply beating with fists was acceptable. It was in the woodcuts, after all. And he was experienced enough as a killer to know that it had to be quick. But Luke preferred the artistry of the martyrings that took more time. It was his art, his craft. It took more time to heat a morion to red-hot temperature, or to strike off hands and feet. But the greatest art took time. After all, everyone remembered the Mona Lisa, but no one remembered last week's comic strips. 

Hands and feet struck off. That made him think of his Susana, far away, up north, where she could shelter herself from the heathens. Such a lovely creature. And her sign to him – the three girls – had been so artistic, so talented. So close to the images of perfection. He wondered how she had managed to do three so quickly. He'd never managed more than two in a night, and those had kept him busy late. 

So he decided which made sense before he left work for the day. Before he went home, he dropped by a Home Depot for tools. He chose a hatchet and an axe handle. He paid cash, so it would be hard to trace. He had a good sharp knife at home, a Sykes-Fairbairn commando knife, which was close enough to the thin-bladed knife he had seen that it would do. From the woods nearby his house he found a good-sized rock that fit nicely in his fist. 

He ate dinner early. He would need his strength for tonight. It would be a very, very busy night. Carefully, Luke dressed in a shirt and tie and Dockers. He wanted to look respectable. After all, he was not dealing with his usual victims. He took a canvas briefcase with Bible literature stuffed in its outside pockets and carefully put the hatchet, the knife, and the rock in it. The axe handle was too large and he determined to use it last. 

Luke walked outside to his Jeep and observed the car for a moment. It was an older model, but well maintained. Luke rather liked it. He liked knowing that he could get through just about any terrain that was thrown at him. He consulted the first name on his list and pulled out into the street. 

…

Andrew Witt sighed as his microwave dinged. He reached in and took out the mug of boiling water. He placed a teabag in it and sat down to catch some TV. Like most bachelors, his apartment was furnished with castaway furniture, but the TV was a large-screen model. He liked to watch boxing. 

He glanced at his lean, spare frame in the mirror for a moment before grabbing his remote and clicking through the channels. No boxing tonight, unfortunately. He stayed on CNN for a while. They were talking about those murders up in Toronto. That was Starling's case. He wondered if she was back from Toronto yet, and if she'd ever managed to catch her cousin. He wondered what she'd meant by that Mary Surratt thing. 

Andrew Witt thought Starling was OK, a good profiler. She hadn't put in as much time as he had, but then again not many people had. At least Starling had the background for it, he thought. Way too many FBI agents thought that a few psychology courses qualified them to work in Behavioral Sciences. And he had to give her credit, tracking down Susana Alvarez Lecter even once was an accomplishment. She'd whomped up some database program, tracked down her errant cousin by her extravagant purchases. And she'd been right _here_, of all places, northern Virginia. Ten miles from here, fifteen miles from her cousin. Scary, when you think about it. Witt was a profiler himself, and he knew well about killers. The thought that one of them – particularly one as dangerous and unpredictable as Hannibal Lecter's daughter – might be shopping at the same supermarkets, dropping off her suits at the same dry cleaners, and buying stamps at the same post office that he frequented. In between hacking people up, of course. 

The doorbell rang. Andrew unfolded his long, rangy frame from the couch and walked over to his apartment door. He opened it and peeked outside. A young man in a shirt and tie stood outside, holding a canvas briefcase slung over his shoulder. In his left hand he held a Bible leaflet. 

"Hello," the young man said. "I'm here with the Universal Church of the Ministers of God. I'd like to talk to you about faith." 

Andrew chuckled. "Look, it's really not a good time right now," he said, and drank from his teacup. 

"I can come back later, if you'd prefer," the young man offered. 

"Look, I'm really not interested," Andrew said, and tried to close the door. The young man looked back and forth in the hallway. There was no one else present. He took a step forward and put his foot in the door. 

"You never know when your time is coming, Mr. Witt," the young man said blandly. Andrew blinked for a moment. How had he gotten his name? Off the mailboxes down in the entryway, probably. "Is your soul clean? Do you believe in God?"

Andrew let out an exasperated sigh. These guys could be so damn _pushy_. He believed in freedom of religion as much as the next guy, but all rights have their limits, and this dude's right to practice his religion ended at Andrew Witt's front door, in his opinion. 

"Look," Andrew said. "I'll be nice here. I'll tell you now that I'm an FBI agent. And you're trespassing. I'll give you one minute to move your foot and be on your way. After that, I'll arrest you for threatening a federal officer." 

The young man thought for a moment. "I see you're not a man of faith, Mr. Witt," he said, and moved his shoe out of the path of the door. "I apologize if I was forward. Would you take a leaflet about His Holy Word, at the least? And call me if you have any questions?" 

"Sure, whatever," Andrew said, and reached out with his free hand to take the proffered leaflet. 

Luke Taylor moved quickly. He pulled the door open and stepped through as quickly as he could, shoving the older man out of his way. The door slid shut behind him. Andrew Witt let out a yelp as she fell to the floor, tea spilling over him. Above him, Luke drew the Sykes-Fairbairn. The blade was blackened, but the edge gleamed silver where he had sharpened it. A thin, wicked blade, six inches long, made by two British commandos expressly for the purpose of killing other human beings. A heretic's weapon if ever there was one. 

Andrew Witt gained his feet and turned to run. His service weapon was lying on the kitchen table on the other side of his living room. But Luke was younger and faster. He grabbed Andrew with his left hand and spun him around, the wiry strength of the determined heretic booming through him. His eyes widened and his breathing deepened. This was what he was born to do. His left hand raised like a striking cobra and grabbed the white hair at the back of Witt's head and forced it back. An image flashed through his mind, from his Book, of a heretic holding a martyr in just this fashion. Through the ages this has come down. From an age of dirt and dust and feudalism to here, now, in this apartment with CNN playing on the wide-screen TV and news from across the world blaring out the stereo speakers. 

His right hand raised the Sykes-Fairbairn high, and he drove it into Andrew Witt's throat. It made a sick, wet sound as the blade punched through flesh and cartilage. Andrew Witt gagged and raised his hands to his throat. It was a good hit. Luke knew this even as he saw the blackened tip of the knife press through the front of Witt's throat. 

When he withdrew the knife, the flow of blood was immediate and heavy. Luke jumped back to avoid getting blood on his clothes. Cleanliness was next to Godliness, after all, and he would be spotted if he had blood on him. Witt collapsed to the floor, still alive, choking on his own blood with a most unpleasant sound. That displeased Luke: a true martyr should accept his fate graciously, dying happily for the service of his faith. But of course this man was no match for those who had died before him. 

Andrew Witt stared up at the young man in his living room, his vision growing dim. He didn't want to die. He couldn't die. But die he would. Struck dumb with horror, he watched his attacker pull the phone off the hook and toss it casually across the room, where it landed on the sofa. His face worked a few times, and then he felt no more. 

Luke Taylor stood over the dead man and smiled somberly. 

"Go in peace," he whispered. 

Then he pulled a plastic trash bag from his briefcase and put the bloody knife inside. He checked his shirt and face momentarily in Andrew Witt's mirror. It seemed okay. He opened the apartment door and walked out to his car, whistling 'Amazing Grace'. 

One down, three to go. He crossed the name WITT off his list. 

The next address was in Maryland, across the state line, so off he went to secure himself his second martyr of the evening. This time the address was a pleasant house in a pleasant suburb with a green lawn and a gleaming black driveway leading to a two-car garage. The driveway had recently gotten a fresh coat of blacktop. Luke stared into the glossy black surface for a moment or two, memories of the pungent aroma of the gravel floating through his brain. When he had been lying stabbed and dying in the street. It, too, was a sign, meant to strengthen him through this trial. 

He rang the doorbell again. A young teenage girl came to the door. She looked at him, puzzled. 

"I'd like to talk to your family about faith," he said calmly. "Is your father around?" 

"We're not…we don't do all that religion stuff," she said. Her face wrinkled in distaste, as if his holy mission was something to be scorned and disliked. 

Luke cursed himself for using the knife first time around. Well, he had the hatchet, even though he hated to double up on martyring methods. He'd just have to manage. The girl was preparing to close the door. He had to act now. And she was a perfect martyr, was she not? Young, attractive, just his type.

He stepped forward and shoved the door open as he had before. The girl screamed piercingly. He brought out the hatchet and swung down hard. But his feet were in the wrong place and the door was in the way. The edge of the hatchet struck on a diagonal across her forehead, between her eyes. But it didn't bite, merely glanced off her skull. _Dammit_. 

"_Daaaaaaddd!"_ the girl screamed. That was just fine by him, actually. He swung down again and this time he felt the hatchet cleave her skull. She groped at the hatchet sticking out obscenely from her face and dropped to the floor and began to seize. 

A man appeared in the hallway, a small, heavy man with a beard. David Warner, according to his list. Warner looked stricken to see his mortally wounded daughter flopping on the floor with the hatchet sticking out of her face. Luke took one big step over her body, his hand reaching down into his briefcase. Five running steps down the hallway and he had caught up with the man. Warner was slower than Witt had been, and it was easy for Luke to pull the rock out of the briefcase. It fit nicely into his fist. Then he grabbed the front of Warner's shirt and pounding his face and jaws with the rock. He felt Warner's nose break with an audible crunch. 

Warner screamed and bleated in his grasp like a caught pig. His hands flailed uselessly against Luke's back and shoulder. _How unmanly, _Luke thought. A man should stand and fight. God knew he'd had to. Then he thought of how he'd never fought back against his mother, even when she'd stabbed him, and he lost himself in rage. In a red haze he swung the rock again and again, feeling it contact hard against his hand as he struck. Eventually, Warner stopped screaming, but Luke barely noticed. 

Then he was bent over, panting, his hand cramped and hurting around the bloody rock. He dropped it back into his briefcase and walked over to the dead girl. He had to use his left hand to pull the hatchet out of her skull, as his right ached too much when he had to use it. Bloodied weapons stashed safe in their plastic bags, he staggered out of the house and back down the street to his car. 

Looking at himself in the mirror told him that he had overdone it this time, in case he hadn't realized that. He wondered how much time he'd wasted pounding an already dead man and decided to get his butt across the state line while he still could. There was blood on his face and his shirt. That was a shame. He liked this tie. But it would be a sacrifice. Yes. A sacrifice to his new life with Susana. And speaking of which, he still had two, maybe three more to go tonight. He had to slay the dark disciples so that she could return from exile. She was reliant upon him, he was her knight. 

He would not fail.

He had planned ahead for this. The briefcase yielded up an extra shirt and some baby wipes. Cleaning up in the Jeep was not at all convenient, but it worked well enough. He glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. He still had enough time to get himself running again and finish off the other two. 

But his hand was sore and cramped. Luke pulled into a McDonald's and ordered a hamburger and a shake. The fried chunk of meat was good and satisfying, and his teeth tore into it with abandon. He held the shake in his hand. The cold, waxy sides of the cup felt soothing. He sipped slowly at the gluey shake, not wanting to drain it too quickly. By eight o'clock, he felt much better. He crossed Warner's name off the list and stared at it for a moment. Two down, two to go. 

On to the next target. This was another apartment in Washington, DC. Luke did his usual gospel bit, got the door opened, forced his way inside. This one was a woman named Thompson, and the hardest part was concealing the axe handle behind his back. It made a suitable cudgel. Beating her to death took a bit longer than the other murders, but it was still not too difficult to do. She screamed a few times and he finally crushed her throat with a blow from the axe handle to shut her up. He made sure to keep control of himself and left as soon as he was satisfied she was dead. 

Escaping was a closer call. When Luke got in his Jeep, he saw two DC patrol cars screaming down the road near him. He watched them carefully and slunk down in his seat. They disgorged two uniformed cops who ran into the apartment building and presumably went upstairs. They paid him no heed. Calmly, Luke started the Jeep and drove away. Thompson came off the list. Three down, one to go. Maybe the bonus one.

He drove around the Beltway a few times, just to make sure no one was following him, before heading to the fourth. He was able to wipe off the knife and tie it to the axe handle with the baby wipes in his car. It was late, and he knew that the gospel act would not work a fourth time. But he could count on his clean-cut clothing to at least get the guy to open the door. 

Fourth victim. He wasn't sure he was going to go to the next one or not. It would depend. Another small house in Virginia, another single man. Easy enough. This one's name was Suttler. Christopher Suttler. Luke rang the doorbell and banged on the street. 

"One minute," came a voice from inside. 

"Please," Luke cried. "There's a girl hit outside, she's all bleeding. Can I use your phone to call the cops?" 

A click as the door was unlocked. Luke grinned. But he was tired now. Just one more to go before he could call his mission a success. He decided to at least have a look at the fifth martyr he had planned. 

Chris Suttler opened the door and looked at Luke. "Where? What happened? Did she get hit by a car?" He was a short, blond man. Luke saw his face and forgot it almost immediately. 

"Nah," Luke said, and shoved the door open. His arms were so very tired, and he was quite weary. Four murders in one day. Had anyone done such a thing before? He couldn't recall. But he was so close now. 

He took his makeshift spear and drove it firmly into Chris Suttler's abdomen, just at the xiphoid process, where the inner curve of the ribs lies. Quick, easy, and dirty. Chris Suttler died with a look of stupid surprise on his face. Luke Taylor sighed, turned back to the car, and jumped in. Off to the bonus target, the one he was toying with finishing. It was funny, he thought: he could remember a lot about Andrew Witt's death, but as he went on it was harder and harder to recall details. But they all were dead, and that was what mattered. He had broken the circle of the twelve dark disciples. 

Four victims had died tonight. Andrew Witt, Dave Warner, Tina Thompson, and Chris Suttler. These four people had more in common than the fact that they had died at Luke Taylor's hands. They had seen each other five times a week at work, where they also saw the fifth victim. Luke was parked in the condo complex that the fifth victim lived in. He crossed off the fourth name and scowled at the fifth. 

Her unit was dark. No car in the parking spot. Not there, and he didn't want to wait. He had suspected this. Luke Taylor put his Jeep in gear and drove home for a well-deserved beer and some sleep. 

Four martyrs, all of whom worked together. Who worked for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Specifically, they worked sixty feet below ground, for the division of Behavioral Sciences. All cold and dead now. The way was prepared for Susana's return. Their names all written on Luke Taylor's list, which he had printed off an article on Behavioral Sciences he had found on the web. The names were listed in reverse alphabetical order, and that was how he had martyred them one by one. 

That piece of white paper fluttered on Luke Taylor's kitchen table as he slept the sleep of the weary but faithful. Tomorrow, his bride would return home to him, her path made safe. The names on the list read:

WITT

WARNER

THOMPSON

SUTTLER

STARLING


	11. Back Home

_Author's note: This chapter was a while in coming, but here it is. Chief Quincy alters lines from President George W. Bush's speech of September 21, 2001 to suit his situation. I was conflicted about using this speech, (regardless of your opinion of President Bush, I think the speech itself will take its place in history), but ultimately, I felt that it would certainly be applicable given what happened in Chapter 10. _

The Cadillac was heading south on the QEW. It was tastefully appointed. Gray leather seats, real wood dashboard, and electronic gauges informing the driver of whatever he might want to know. Behind the wheel was a white-haired man in an expensive suit. His name was Roger Patterson, and he was quite pleased with how things were going. 

Roger Patterson was a lawyer, a man of image. The expensive suit and expensive car might have given you the idea that he was a successful man, a man of privilege. The attractive blonde sitting in the passenger seat would have furthered this idea. In fact, Roger Patterson was simply another personal-injury lawyer in Virginia Beach, practicing out of a down-at-the-heels office suite. His advertisements on late-night TV implored those who had been injured to call him, so that he might hammer for them every dime they were due. 

In short, Roger Patterson was a legal prostitute. Money was his god and always had been. So when Susana Alvarez Lecter had contacted him, he did not care a whit what she had done or what she was. She paid him well and he did what she wanted. He didn't know why she had wanted the Castillo chick bailed out of jail, nor why she would want her trucked up to Toronto. He knew it was a violation of Ana's bail agreement and had been the minute he crossed the Virginia state line. The unlovely truth about Roger Patterson was that he did not care. Ana wasn't paying him, Susana was. Well, he thought, not quite. Mrs. E. Rosenberg of New York, New York had hired and paid him. And since he was a lawyer, any dealings with his client were strictly confidential. Made for a nice moneymaking machine. 

It was true, he thought as he drove, that he could be accused of aiding and abetting an escapee, but the odds of that happening were minimal. Susana Alvarez Lecter was a fugitive; E. Rosenberg was not. In order to get him for anything at all, they had to prove he knew, and fortunately Susana was a much smarter client than most. Her ID in the name of Bonnie Brown Heady was impeccable, and her appearance was nothing like the mugshot that was taped under the desk of every Customs office in the country. 

He stole a glance over at her now. She perched on his passenger seat calmly, not at all bothered by the sight of the immigration booths drawing closer. She was dressed in a short, tight little dress, which made for pleasant eye candy while he drove. A blonde wig was bobby-pinned to her head, and cheek pads wedged into her cheeks altered the lines of her face. Her makeup was deliberately provocative. She crossed her legs high and waggled the high-heeled pump on her foot, glancing over at him as he eyed her. Sunglasses masked her eyes. 

Ahead lay the Customs booths for those re-entering the United States. The flags of many nations flapped in the breeze atop the row of tired booths. Trucks and cars parked in line, each waiting their turn to trundle forward and submit to the gaze and few questions of a US Customs officer. Roger pulled over to the right and got in line. It moved quickly. 

_Brilliant, _he thought. It wasn't the first time Roger Patterson had played around the edges of the law. It was the first time he'd ever illegally transported a fugitive into the U.S. He drew upon the depths of his legal education and thought. Aiding and abetting a known fugitive. Knowingly violating Ana's bail conditions. Bringing Ana up into Canada and bringing Susana back. But then he thought about the numbered bank account in the Caymans that would release his money once he had her down in Virginia, and it all seemed all right. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter's plan to re-enter the US was simple. If the authorities were using her original mugshot, they'd be looking for a single Hispanic woman. If Cousin Lisa had corrected them on that little issue, they might be able to have corrected pictures out. But in any case they'd be looking for a woman by herself. 

When she checked herself in the mirror, she found her outfit and look to be ruefully amusing. Susana had been raised in Argentina, where it was quite common for younger women to dress provocatively. She had never made a habit of it. But now she was. She grinned in the mirror and a blonde hootchie grinned back at her. 

But Susana thought it would do. Customs here would take one look at the car, one look at Patterson, and one look at her. They would think _trophy wife, probably just married at the Falls_ rather than _armed fugitive_. And Susana was armed: the big, pink, gaudy purse by her feet contained the pistol she had borrowed from Lt. McNeely. Once they were actually up to the booths, it was all academic anyway. If anything happened, she figured Patterson would lose his nerve. He was a moneygrubber, not a warrior. She'd simply shoot him, ram her way over the seat, get the doorhandle, dump his body and drive. These agents were not accustomed to defending themselves, even if armed. Her experience told her that she could probably drop two or three of them before anyone got their thumbs out of their butts enough to get a shot at her. 

But that wouldn't be necessary, she hoped. She smiled at herself in the mirror, trying to adopt the vacuous look of an airhead. A 22-year-old receptionist who had been hired for her looks and promoted to second wife after the boss dumped his wife and kids for her. It took a bit of work to mold her usual cold, triumphant smile into the proper moronic grin. And this pink lipstick was absolutely too much, she would scrub it off once she'd gotten past Customs. 

She rolled around the three-carat diamond ring on her finger. It was heavy, and she wasn't used to the weight of it at all. Thank God it was on her left hand – she'd never be able to shoot straight with that on her gun hand. And it was ostentatious and showy. In poor taste. Internally she ached for being across the damn border, so she'd be able to take it off. The shoes and dress had to go too. 

The car in front of them had been cleared to re-enter the US, and Patterson rolled the Cadillac up to the booth. He stopped. Susana tensed. The Customs guard seemed bored. He looked them over and paid no attention to them. 

"Nationalities?" he asked, as he did several hundred times a day. 

"US," Roger said. 

The guard leaned in and looked at Susana. "Ma'am?" 

"US," she assured him. Her right hand crept towards the gaudy purse and she got her hand on the gun. 

"How long were you in Canada for?" the guard continued. 

She'd prepped Patterson on this, and he came through. "Two weeks," he said. 

Susana smiled vacuously and looked at the guard over the rims of her sunglasses. Her left hand stole out and touched Patterson's thigh. "We got _marr-_ied," she cooed. "At the Falls, it was just beautiful." 

"Congrats," the guard said disinterestedly. "Did you buy anything while in Canada?" 

"Nope," Patterson said, blushing as Susana stroked his leg. This was as she had intended. Then he remembered his line. "Well, a hundred bucks or so in souvenirs." 

"Have a nice day," the guard said, waving them in. 

Susana let out a sigh as they proceeded back into the US on Route 104. 

"See, that wasn't so bad," Patterson said. "Though I think you're nuts to come back here." 

That was the good thing about Roger Patterson, Susana thought. He only acted when he had to. Alone, it was all straight dealing. But she couldn't be sure of that. It was entirely possible that Patterson might sell her to the FBI once he had the chance. But she had planned for that. 

"I have my reasons," Susana said archly. "Hey, can you stop at a rest stop when one comes up? I have to use the ladies' room." 

Patterson grinned. "Sure," he said. 

So they drove a short distance to the New York Thruway and picked it up going east, towards Rochester. Susana kicked off her shoes as they drove. She didn't talk a lot until they left Buffalo. There were several miles of highway, and then the rest stop came into view. Patterson pulled off without being asked. Feeling unpleasantly exposed in the short dress, Susana headed into the building with the awful pink purse in hand. 

In the ladies' room, she used the bathroom, checked her makeup, and reached into her purse. From it, she extracted a short length of black cord with a plastic ball attached to each end. This had to go neatly. No mess. The Harpy wouldn't work. 

When she got back to the car, she clambered into the back seat. She supposed he got an eyeful with this damn short skirt, but it didn't matter. He eyed her in the mirror curiously. 

"I want to get out of these pantyhose," she explained. 

"How come you didn't do it in there?" he queried. 

"Because I want to get on the road," she explained, and kicked off her shoes. "Drive." He got an embarrassed little grin on his face, as if this was something to get excited about. Susana had to roll her eyes. Men. Wear a minidress and stockings and their brains shorted out. 

The backseat of the Cadillac was quite roomy, and it was easy enough to get the cord out. Susana slid over behind him and slipped the cord around his throat. She braced one knee against the wide seat and pulled hard. She had good leverage and it paid off.

Roger Patterson went from being vaguely excited to realizing his death in about twenty seconds. He grabbed the tight garrotte and tried to pull it off. That was good, Susana didn't want him laying on the horn. It didn't take long for his struggles to flag. Susana eased off the pressure once she was sure he was dead. She was miffed to discover a run in her pantyhose. _Damn. Those were Evan-Piccone. _

She wriggled out of them and reached forward for the release on the passenger seat. It wasn't easy to haul Patterson's body into the back, but she got him in. Thankfully, the Caddy had tinted windows and no one was watching. 

Once she had him on the floor of the back seat, she slid out of the car and opened the trunk. It was stuffed full of her purchases in Toronto, and she selected a bag from Chanel, her Coach purse, and a plastic bag from a Toronto knife shop. Then back into the back seat, where she changed out of the minidress into a more conservative suit and more comfortable shoes. The Harpy she had bought to replace the one they'd taken from her when she was arrested went on her waistband. Then into the front seat, where she started the car and left the rest stop. 

She knew she would have to ditch the car, but that could wait until she hit New York City – probably the best place for a car to disappear on the Eastern Seaboard, and replacing it would be easy. As she drove, she slowly began picking the bobby pins out of her hair. By the time she hit Rochester, the wig had come loose and she tossed it to the passenger seat. 

Slowly, she began retracing her route south. Part of her thought this was not a good idea. That was where she had escaped from and where the heat would be hottest. But there was something else. She still had some work to do here, and she wanted to be around. Luke had done very well at accomplishing the first phase of his mission, but the second phase would be much harder. They would be on their guard. 

…

The station was busy. Police officer manhandled suspects into the holding cells. People buzzed back and forth with papers. Phones rang. Women cried. Voices raised in a cacophonous din. In short, it was like every other metropolitan police station on the face of the planet. Lisa Starling was sitting at a commandeered desk. She was reviewing some of the reports from the crime scene and faxing them down to Quantico. 

The crime was completely bizarre and completely un-Susana. Susana could mutilate her victims, she knew that, but usually didn't. Susana had never targeted young women in her life. Other than their being on the Lecter fan club list (_and what kind of psychopath would start a Lecter fan club online_, Lisa couldn't help but think), there was no reason at all for Susana to go after them. And if she wanted to go after people who discussed her father online, she'd have to kill them at the rate of four hundred a day if she wanted to finish by the time she was eighty. 

So Lisa was still stuck where she had been before: trying to figure out what the hell Susana had been doing and where she might be. The first question she still had no real idea on. It seemed like Susana was copycatting someone else's style, but that didn't seem like something she would do. It was puzzling as all hell. The second, Lisa had a bit more of an idea on. She believed Susana would leave town, but she wasn't sure if Susana would have left town immediately after the killings. That would have been the smart thing to do, but then again, Susana was obviously feeling confident enough that she had called Lisa in the first place. 

She was perusing hotel check-in lists, trying to see where Susana might have wriggled in. Some research on the Internet had told her that the only women ever executed by the federal government were Mary Surratt, Ethel Rosenberg, and Bonnie Heady. Susana had checked into the Four Seasons under the name of Mary Surratt. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who the 'Mrs. Rosenberg' who had gotten Ana out of jail was. Somehow, she did not think her cousin willing to give up the game quite so readily. If there was two, there had to be a third. Susana would not play this game if she wasn't going to finish it.

So she was looking over hotel check-in lists, her eyes going blurry, and then there it was. Le Royal Meridien King Edward. Bonnie Brown Heady had checked in the day of the murders. She grinned as she saw it and circled it. She reached across the desk for the phone. 

As her hand came down on the receiver, another hand came down and grasped her wrist. She looked up with a gasp. The hand was attached to a tall man in a RCMP uniform. He looked at her expressionlessly. 

"Are you Agent Starling from the FBI?" he asked. 

"Yes…why?" Lisa replied. 

"You have to come with me," he explained. 

"Just a minute," Lisa said. "I might have something here--," 

The Mountie sighed. "I'm afraid not, Agent Starling. Your boss called." 

Lisa's brow furrowed. "My boss?" 

His eyes looked up as he tried to remember. "Section Chief Don Quincy," he said. "I need you to get your stuff and come with me." 

Lisa put down the paper and gave him a blank look. "Is there a problem?" 

He nodded. "Well, it's nothing you've done and I'm not allowed to say anything more. But you're officially in protective custody as of now." 

Lisa raised an eyebrow at him. "Protective custody? Is this a joke?" 

"I wish it was, Agent Starling," he said tensely. "My orders are to get you to the airport and get you on a plane back to the U.S." He beckoned. "So I need you to come with me. Now." 

"All right," Lisa said, her mind spinning. Protective custody? Being shipped back to the US now? "Have I done something wrong?" 

He shook his head. But he was insistent, so Lisa went along with him. She had just enough time to say goodbye to the sergeant and pass along her tip that Susana might be at the King Edward. Then the Mountie brought her out to his car. 

"Can I at least call Quantico and see what this is about?" she asked, more fiercely than she had intended. 

The Mountie raised his hands peaceably. "Course you can," he said. "You're not under arrest, Agent Starling. It's protective." 

Lisa got out her phone and called Behavioral Sciences. The secretary was quite friendly and helpful, but only confirmed what the Mountie had told her. Plus a little more. 

"Well yes, Agent Starling," she said. "Chief Quincy has ordered you back to the US immediately, and the RCMP is supposed to keep you protected until you're on the plane. Federal marshals will be there to meet you and will bring you to Quantico." 

Lisa's knees weakened. "What the hell is going on?" she asked. "Am I under arrest or something?" 

The secretary's voice lowered. "Agent Starling, I'm not supposed to tell you this…but there were some murders last night." 

Lisa's eyes widened as she pressed the phone closer. "In the FBI? Who was it? Am I a suspect or something?" 

"Oh no," the secretary said, "you're not a suspect. But Chief Quincy wants all profilers back in Quantico now, and we're going to make arrangements for security." 

The drive to the airport and flight seemed to go very quickly. Lisa barely had time to get her stuff from the hotel and check in. The Mountie waited with her until they boarded the plane. Lisa herself sat there, trying to figure out what it could be. Murders? Those were commonplace; after all, Behavioral Sciences' main job was tracking murderers. Had someone targeted a profiler? 

Those questions ran through her mind as she waited in the terminal and then on the tarmac, waiting for the plane to take off. She had no answers. She racked her brain, trying to figure out why this might have happened and what was going on. 

When her plane landed, she saw two large, burly federal marshals waiting for her at the gate. They were quite polite, and explained to her their job was to see that she returned to Quantico safely. They didn't talk much, explaining that she would be briefed at an emergency meeting at Behavioral Sciences. Lisa was whisked back to the building in which she worked. Then down to the basement where Behavioral Sciences held court. 

She entered the meeting room and saw seven other people seated around the table. Six of them she knew: they were the other profilers of Behavioral Sciences. The seventh was an impossibly old man she did not recognize. He looked at her with rheumy, ancient eyes behind thick glasses. She smiled once mechanically at him and glanced around. Was this it? There were people missing. 

Chief Quincy entered the room and strode to the front of the room. He took a moment or two to gather himself. He seemed quite rattled: his jaw trembled and his hands shook. He looked like he had aged twenty years in the day she had been away. Slowly, he took a deep breath and began. 

"I'm sure most of you have heard already, but I'll say this again for those of us who haven't," he began. "Last night, Behavioral Sciences was targeted in a manner no one has ever done to us before. Four of our fellow agents…," he stopped and took a deep breath. "Four of our fellow agents were brutally murdered last night over a four-hour period. Andrew Witt, David Warner, Laura Thompson, and Chris Suttler. Local police and FBI are investigating." He shook a bit in rage and his eyes turned angry. 

"Whether or not this has to do with any current cases," and his eyes touched Lisa's. The same name echoed in both their brains without being said, the thought skipping across the basement air from brain to brain. "is as of yet unknown. But we will not let this stop us. We will find the persons responsible for this act of cowardice and we will see them prosecuted to the full extent of the law." 

The bottom fell out of Lisa Starling's stomach, and an icy blankness entered in its place. Four people dead? Four _profilers_ dead? Never, never had such a thing happened before. Not even Hannibal Lecter had ever declared war on Behavioral Sciences. 

"While we are searching out the person or persons responsible for this," Quincy continued, "we will not be cowed. We will serve the memory of the profilers we lost by continuing forward. Everyone will work their cases and we will continue to do what we're doing. I have assigned three people to work this case exclusively. If you were not assigned, do not take that as an insult. We have our job to do, and we will do it honorably." 

He sighed, and Lisa saw unshed tears gleaming in his eyes. 

"Effective immediately, every agent in Behavioral Sciences will be shadowed by bodyguards. At home, or at work. Some will be federal marshals. Some will be agents of our own Hostage Rescue Team. One of the things I have always loved about being a law enforcement officer is this: we stick by our own. Local authorities have pledged their support to ensure that whoever did this cannot strike again."

"Obviously, with four of our profilers out, we will need help. Sitting here next to me," he said, indicating the old man, "is a man many of you have heard of. He is a legend in Behavioral Sciences. He was tracking killers since before some of you were born. I am honored that he has come to help out in our darkest hour. Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce a great profiler and a great man to you all: Will Graham." 

A certain amount of gasping went up around the table. Lisa tried to keep from gawking. Will Graham? She had heard of him, of course, but he had been retired almost twenty-five years before she had been _born_. She hadn't known he was still alive. The old man smiled tersely and nodded. Yes, looking at him, she could see the scars on the craggy, wrinkled face. He studied her back for a moment and his eyes flicked to the next agent seated next to her. Old yes, but not dead. 

"I'd like to quote from a speech, if I could, given in another dark time. Our department has been put on notice. We're not immune from attack. But the hour is coming in which we will act, and you will make us proud. We will not tire. We will not falter and we will not fail."

"That's all, people. Starling, I'd like you to meet with Graham when you get a chance. We have a killer to catch. We'll get him." 

The meeting broke up. Slowly, people shuffled out of the meeting room as if leaving a funeral. Lisa sat in the chair still, stunned and shocked by the news. Chief Quincy looked down at her sadly. 

"Was it Susana?" she asked immediately. 

Chief Quincy shrugged. "We don't know yet. That depends partially on what you tell us." 

Will Graham looked her over calmly and then extended a gnarled, shaking hand. "Pleased to meet you, Agent Starling," he wheezed in a papery voice. "I understand you're the department's…Lecter expert." 

"Pleased to meet you," Lisa said, blushing. "I guess I am, yes." She knew perfectly well what Susana's father had done to Will Graham more than half a century ago. Somewhere under that old suit was the scar from where Dr. Hannibal Lecter had tried to gut Will Graham long before either she or Susana walked the earth.

"I know what you're thinking," Will said. "And I'm ninety. And I can't anymore and my joints ache. But my mind's about as sharp as it ever was. Now let's go down to your office and you tell me about Susana Alvarez. Or as some might call her," he paused. This was clearly hard for him to say, but he did. His breath sucked in sharply in what might have been a sob.

"Tell me about Dr. Lecter." 


	12. A Walk in the Park

                _Author's note: Susana makes up most religious stuff as she goes along, but in this chapter she paraphrases Acts 9:2, 9:18 and 9:16.  Lauralee, here you go – request granted.  For you goo fans (ahemcoffSteelcoffcoff):  (New York accent) You want goo?  I gotcha goo right HEAH!  Here we go, Serial Killers in Love.  Aren't they just so cuuuuuute?_

                It was a warm summer day in Virginia, bright and sunny.  The park was a picture of paradise.  Children played excitedly on the swingsets.  Families grilled burgers and hotdogs.  Occasionally, the music of a boombox pierced the peaceful scene, but never far enough to disturb anyone else.  And seated on a blanket, equipped with a picnic basket and a radio of their own, were Susana Alvarez Lecter and Luke Taylor.  Both wore baseball caps and sunglasses.   Neither of these stuck out: many people wore them against the bright sun.  

                These two monsters were at peace, enjoying a picnic to celebrate Susana's return.  Watching them eat their lunch and enjoy each others company would only have been odd to someone who knew what they were.  Their food was merely roast-beef sandwiches with Dijon mustard, French fries, and wine.  It was strictly against Virginia law to bring an alcoholic beverage into a state park, but many rangers winked at the violations, and laws against alcoholic beverages often do not influence the behavior of those who commit murder without compunction. 

                Luke reached out and touched Susana's arm briefly as she ate.  He had not failed her, and she had not failed him.  He had been her warrior, her messenger, defeating her enemies for her, and now he was enjoying the due reward of his efforts.  She had come back to him.  He found himself enjoying everything about her.  The sight of her.  The smell of her.  Her very presence. 

                For her part, Susana was also enjoying the day and the company.  Here, in the very place she had been taken prisoner, she was out, free, enjoying the sunshine.  And there was no indication that anyone knew she was here.  The drive down from Canada had been uneventful.  She'd left the Cadillac in a no-parking zone in New York City, and by now it had been crunched down into a cube of metal somewhere in a Brooklyn scrapyard.  Perhaps Roger Patterson's corpse, ensconced in the trunk, had been crushed with it.  But she was here, free, in the outdoors, with someone who cared for her.  For a woman who had recently been both incarcerated and orphaned, these were not small things.  The fact that he was a serial killer did not bother Susana in the least.  The fact that he was emotionally disturbed and obsessed with religion as a cover for his killings simply made for an interesting relationship.   

                "Are you happy to be back?" he asked, smiling gently at her.

                "Yes," she smiled back.  Luke felt something flip-flop in his chest.  

                "Did you see the paper?" he continued.  "It'll be much harder to get to the rest now.  They're on their guard." 

                Susana shrugged and nodded.  "For now," she explained.  "They'll get sloppy sooner or later."  

                Luke nodded.  "I don't understand all of your plan," he said solemnly.  "You can't go to war with all of the heathens in the FBI." 

                  _Ain't that the truth, Susana Alvarez Lecter thought.  But Luke had done what she wanted him to, so she would give him another piece of the puzzle.  _

                "I don't need to go to war with all of them," Susana explained.  "Just Behavioral Sciences.  They're the brains behind the operation."  She ruminated for a moment over how to put it into terms that would feed his religious psychosis.  It wasn't easy, since she was completely without religion.  

                "I don't need to strike down all the soldiers of the dark forces," she hedged.  "Just take out their…sorcerers.  You know, their witches.  They'll be blind without them, and the Lord will deliver us from the hands of our enemies."  She fought the brief urge to throw her arms in the air and scream _Hallelujah. Dealing with Luke and religion was always difficult: the temptation to mock it was part of her nature, but it would offend him deeply.  _

                _Their witches.  The image of Lisa Starling in a black robe and pointy hat rose up in her mind, mixing crime-scene reports and eye of newt into a black cauldron rose up in her mind and she stifled a giggle.  But she did have to find out what sort of witchery Lisa had employed in order to track her.  But that would have to wait.  _

                "So when shall we go after the fifth?" Luke asked.  

                "Not sure yet," Susana said, only half listening.  

                "I saw her condo before.  She wasn't there," Luke offered. 

                Susana did not reply at first, simply enjoying the sunshine on her face.  Sunshine that wasn't through a tiny window, filtered by thick glass.  Then she realized Luke had said _she and __her.  Behavioral Sciences only had two women as profilers, something Susana disapproved of.  Luke had killed one on his mission a few days before.  That meant there was only one left. _

                "Um…wait a minute," Susana said primly.  Lisa Starling could have told Luke that her prim, schoolmarmish tone indicated she was displeased.  "Are you referring to Lisa Starling?" 

                Luke seemed surprised.  "Of course," he said.  "She is one of the dark disciples.  Actually, she's the one who tracked you down. Surely you'd want her out of the way."  He had heard of Lisa Starling when he'd heard of Susana's capture.  The media had been unable to resist the story: cousin tracking down and arresting cousin just didn't happen every day.  

                That bothered Susana.  She rather enjoyed the games with Lisa's mind, and she was loath to lose her favorite target. 

                "Not her," she said vehemently.  "Don't you touch her."

                Luke's eyes widened behind the sunglasses he wore.  "Are you serious?" 

                She nodded.  Then she realized how to phrase it to him and took a breath to compose herself. 

                "Lisa's going to have an epiphany," Susana said slowly.  "She will go unto the judges and ask for warrants and say she'll bring me back to Alexandria in chains if she finds me, but she'll have a vision on the road to Quantico, and the scales will fall from her eyes."  _Or something like that, she amended.  She smiled coldly.  "I myself will show her how much she must suffer for the sake of my name."_

                Luke nodded.  "If that is the plan of God," he said simply. 

                Susana said nothing.  Privately, she thought _No, the plan is mine, not God's, but you seem incapable of telling the difference._

_                Just then, a battered Trans Am pulled into the parking lot of the park.  A large blue car followed it.  The second car was obviously a police cruiser – big blue sedan, with a large antenna waving off the back.  Susana's head swiveled to follow them as she had glanced over every car__ that entered the lot since they had come here. _

                _No.  Couldn't be. _

                Susana had chosen this park because her mother had told her about it.  Her mother had been right: it was quite pretty and pleasant.  Apparently, it was attractive to more than one Starling.  Silently, she watched Lisa Starling pull her Trans Am into a parking space.  The prowler pulled in beside it.  She got out and helped an old man from the passenger seat of the sports car.  The cop car disgorged two people:  a tall, dark-haired woman in a T-shirt and black fatigue pants whom Susana had never seen before, and a man in a federal marshal's uniform. 

                Behind her sunglasses her eyes widened.  Luke saw them too and tensed.  

                "Stay calm," she said urgently.  "They're not here for us.  There'd be a lot more if they were, and they'd have machine guns."  

                "So what do we do?" Luke asked, not unreasonably.  

                Susana rummaged in the picnic basket.  Next to the plates and the thermos was a 9mm pistol, two pairs of handcuffs, and a pair of Zeiss binoculars.  The handcuffs were for tonight.  Susana took the pistol and covered it up with a napkin.  She pulled it out of the basket along with the binoculars.  

                "Here," she said.  "Lie down on the blanket."  

                Luke did, and she snuggled up against him as young lovers might have done.  She placed the pistol in between them and brought the binoculars up to her eyes.  The magnified image of her cousin appeared in them, and she tilted her head curiously.  It was hard to keep the binoculars up over Luke's head and try to be unnoticeable.  

                Her cousin was guiding the old man to a picnic table, supporting him with one arm and holding a bunch of files and a cooler in her other hand.  Susana took a moment to look at the old man.  She didn't recognize him.  Nor did she recognize the bodyguards – and that was what she knew they were.  Her binoculars lingered on the figure of Agent Laura Miehns for a moment or two, but Susana had never actually met Agent Miehns.   The HRT commander had been in the van with Lisa at the ill-fated operation to arrest Susana a few years before.  

                She shifted back to her cousin and the old man.  What the hell was Lisa doing?  She was a little old to be seeking a Girl Scout merit badge.  She seemed quite respectful towards the old man, handing him files to look at, running and getting him a drink out of the cooler.  Susana frowned curiously and focused in on the old man.  She didn't think they could see her from this distance.  

                Who was he?  Her memory palace contained files in the Hall of Enemies on every agent assigned to Behavioral Sciences, courtesy of all the articles she could glean on the Internet and Freedom of Information act requests that she was able to get anonymously through lawyers like Roger Patterson.  There were old men in the department, sure.  But no one as old as this walking zombie.  

                She studied the old man's face through the lenses of the binoculars.  With the magnification, she could see every unlovely wrinkle and wattle.  Honestly, Botox had been legal for years.  The man could take advantage of modern medicine.   She saw an ancient, long-healed scar in a triangle around his eye.  Must've been years ago, the flesh was barely discolored.

                In her memory palace, her father's voice echoed.  A conversation from long ago, from when she had been a teenager and he had sat her down and told her that he had not always been Alonso Alvarez, and that he had not always been an Argentine medical school professor.  

                _Has there ever been someone else like me, Susana?  There was, once.  I haven't seen him in years.  But we were just alike…and then he showed her a picture from his trial. There he had sat, proud and unbowed, at the defense table.  And on the witness stand, uncomfortable in his bandages…._

_                "Graham," she said under her breath. _

                "Hmm?" Luke asked against her.  He was trying to shift around so that her elbow did not dig into him.  

                "Graham," she repeated.  "That's the old man there. My, that's surprising.  I never thought he'd still be alive."  

                For a moment, great anger rose up in her. How dare Will Graham live when her father was years in his grave?  When her mother was buried next to him?  Susana had never had the same urge as her father, to create a place in the world for the deceased by taking the place of a living person.  But if it were possible, she would have taken Will Graham in a second and given his place to her father.  

                But she couldn't do that, and was realistic enough to know that.  She could, however, touch something her father had touched, and walk in his footsteps the way that pleased her the most.  This would be far better than simply arranging murders in the manner that he had.  Here, she could do what he had done, and _succeed where he had failed.  It would have made him proud.  She lowered the binoculars and grinned a grin one might expect to see on the jowls of a hungry wolf._

                "You're grinning," Luke Taylor said, and his own smile was so open and so happy you never would have thought he had bludgeoned and stabbed five people to death a few days ago.  

                Susana's grin widened and she dropped her lips to his.  She lingered on them for a long, lazy moment.  "I'm _very happy," she said.  He seemed to be more comfortable with physical affection now.  Good thing, training all the Christianity out of him would be __so tiresome.  _

                "Are we still on for tonight?" he asked.  "Or have plans changed?" 

                "For tonight?  I'm still game for it," she said.  Dinner in a nice place in the city. She'd taken him shopping the day before and gotten him something presentable to wear out at the best restaurants.  Then a movie.  Then…a little live entertainment.  

                …

                "Starling, I don't see why you couldn't have done this back at Quantico," Laura Miehns said, grinning.  

                "It's a beautiful day," Lisa said.  "And we can go over things here perfectly well."  

                Laura Miehns crossed her arms at the smaller woman.  "Quantico's more secure."  She scanned the landscape of the park.  

                "Here has picnic tables," Lisa riposted. 

                "How nice," Agent Miehns said.  "Susana Lecter might be in the treeline with a sniper rifle too.  But hey, you'd die with a picnic table." 

                Lisa Starling rolled her eyes.  Agent Miehns had volunteered to guard her while Behavioral Sciences was under siege.  She was good at her job – almost too good.  Occasionally, Lisa thought that given her druthers the taller woman would have stashed her down in Susana's old cell.  

                "She's never used a sniper rifle," Lisa said.  "And the…attacks were all with hand-to-hand weapons.  Sniping isn't her style anyway. She's up close and personal." 

                "Quit it, the two of you," Will Graham said. His tone was surprisingly strong considering his age.  He adjusted the baseball cap on his head and stared them down each in turn.  "You're acting like a couple of kids brawling in the back seat." 

                Very few people could have said that to the commander of the HRT, but Laura Miehns did not have it in her to get angry at an old man, particularly an old man who had been on the job before either of them were born.  "Mr. Graham, I'm not paranoid.  My job is to keep both of you safe.  And this isn't the best tactical situation here."

                "Well, you can't keep us cooped up in the basement forever," Lisa said.  She sat down across from Graham at the picnic table and handed him a file.   He opened it and stared at the mugshot of Susana Alvarez Lecter.  His throat wavered.  

                Will Graham had not known Clarice Starling terribly well.  He had met her at a few functions – some dinner that Molly had called "Behavioral Sciences' Greatest Hits" – and the most he had ever traded with her was a simple hello.   Susana's face strongly resembled her mother's.  Conveniently, there was a copy of Clarice's first FBI photo ID in Susana's file.  He stared at it for a moment and back to her daughter's mugshot.  Yes, Susana looked more like her mother.  But the eyes.  

                Will closed his own eyes and remembered.  Those maroon eyes of Dr. Lecter's, rare and merciless.  Staring at him, seemingly _through him, in Lecter's office.  Nodding and smiling.  __Why no, I don't recall much about the man…just an arrow wound through the thigh, Investigator, it was five years ago.  One of his friends brought him in.  Hunting buddies, perhaps.  He had chuckled.  Then Lecter in the cell.  __That's the same dreadful cologne you wore in court…Do you know how you caught me?  The reason you caught me is that we're **just alike…**_

_                He shuddered away memories.  Hard to believe that had been a quarter century or so before the woman in the mugshot was born.  Dr. Lecter was dead: so the file noted, so Susana had said at her first arrest.  That was no small comfort to Will Graham.  But he was alive in the maroon eyes that stared out of the mugshot at him.  She looked like Starling, but her expressions were pure Lecter.  Even in the mugshot, she had the same little half-smirk that Lecter had adopted with anyone he thought less intelligent than him.  Which was only the entire planet.__   _

Dr. Lecter's daughter, Dr. Lecter herself._ That was who she was all right for him.  It made it easier for him to think of her that way.  It was a tie between his encounter with the first Dr. Lecter over half a century before and now.  And no one could deny her the title of 'doctor'.  Harvard Medical School, attending under the pseudonym Alina Lektor.  Graham recognized the almost-anagram of Hannibal in the first name and wondered if she'd had a middle name that contained the H, B, and the other L. He thought she had. A surgeon instead of a psychiatrist, but that simply helped her do her unspeakable work more efficiently.  As he reviewed her crime-scene photos, he was put ill at ease by the sight that she had gutted an FBI agent – DeGraff, his name was, Graham had to squint to read it.  The autopsy photo hit close to home.  But he had lived, and it looked like DeGraff hadn't.  He read a few words of the 302 Agent Lisa Starling had filed about the DeGraff incident and wished he hadn't.   She seemed quite sweet for someone who had eaten another agent's intestines._

He tried to concentrate on other things.  Like Lisa Starling, Graham saw through the tan and the black hair dye almost immediately.  She wasn't Hispanic in looks normally.  He had her mother's picture right there to compare with, and her father's face would always reside in the back of his mind.  

He flipped open another file and began to peruse the results of the Toronto murders.  The murder of Shawn Irons was definitely Susana's.  The murder of the younger women, however, gave him pause.  Not Susana's style at all, as Lisa had told him before.  In some ways it reminded him of the murders Hannibal Lecter had committed.   Medieval in style.  No, wait.  Not medieval…well, sort of. 

He'd seen those somewhere.  Where was it?  GWU? No, he was thinking of _Wound Man.  How he'd caught the first Dr. Lecter. The memory of being on the phone with the police switchboard rose up in his mind then.  All he'd felt was that hot breath on the back of his neck.  _

He gritted his teeth and forced it away.  _Think about it, now, he told himself.  It wasn't GWU.  It had been after the Lecter case.  He'd been delivering a talk to some local PD boys who wanted Profiling 101.  Most of them had just been interested in hearing it, but one fellow showed up and had some promise.  He'd talked with Graham after his speech and had really, really seemed interested in it.  Some local-yokel boy, who hadn't yet realized that his police career would start and end in a patrol car writing tickets and arresting drunks.  _

"Ever seen anything like this?" he asked.  "I saw this in the library.  Real horrible if you ask me.  You were saying Dr. Lecter liked medieval things, did he ever do a murder like this?" 

The book had been covered over in plastic, the way library books were.  What was the title?  He couldn't remember.  But he remembered the smell of the old pages and the frankly horrible images copied in there.  And those two girls…wait…hanging like that.  Yes.  He knew what they were supposed to be.  Yes.

"Martyrs," Will Graham said, staring down at the picture 

Lisa Starling glanced at him.  "Huh?" 

"They're martyrs," Will repeated, and stabbed a blunt finger at the picture.  "There's a book about it but I can't remember the title."  He tapped it with a thick fingernail three times, tap tap tap on the wooden picnic table.  "Hanging like that.  One beaten with a hammer, the other with the weights.  But I think Dr. Lecter may have updated the choking part."  

Lisa seemed interested but hadn't put it into place yet.  To Will, this was very frustrating.  The limitations old age had placed on his body he could deal with. He could cope with being unable to run, with not being able to carry heavy things.  But his mind had always been sharp.  He could recall events seventy years in the past without difficulty.  Death did not frighten Will Graham.  That might seem surprising to those who had not lived for nine decades, but it didn't.  He had seen death before.  Almost known it himself before.  He knew his time would come eventually.  It was nature's way, and he would be back with his Molly.  But what did frighten him was losing his mental faculties.  He'd seen plenty of people who needed refreshing on their kids' names, and later their own.  That frightened him.  For the title to escape him was maddening. 

Trying to remember that meeting in the early eighties – had it really been so long?  Yes, amazingly.  The title was…_dammit! It wouldn't come._

Will Graham bunched his blocky hand into a fist and pounded it on the table. Lisa started.  

"Hey, it's OK," she said.   "It'll come to you." 

"Don't worry about it, Mr. Graham," Agent Miehns said, scanning the park patrons.  Kids, families, young lovers.  It seemed safe, but she remained watchful.  You never knew when the enemy might strike.  Susana Alvarez Lecter had reminded her of that when she'd killed off almost the entire HRT at one fell swoop.  "You know, you'll probably remember it tonight." 

Graham nodded and adjusted his ballcap over his closely cut white hair.  There was something else here.  What had Lisa told him? 

"You said you thought she was copycatting someone else's pattern," he said. 

Lisa nodded.  "That's the only thing I can think," she concurred.  "She's never done this before, and neither did her father.  But it's weird.  She's never copycatted someone before.  That would be…beneath her." 

Will Graham's head bobbed up and down slowly and seriously.  

"You know what?  You're right," he said, and watched Lisa preen.  "She was copying someone.  Why we don't know.  Look for victims with a lot of torture on the bodies.  He might be just dumping the bodies, so it won't be immediately obvious.  But you've seen this guy before, and I think she has too.  I don't know if it's connected to Black Wednesday."  The term was becoming ghoulishly popular to refer to the four deaths Behavioral Science had suffered.  

His eyes swept over the park.  They lingered for a moment on a young couple snuggled up together on a blanket.  He had to smile despite himself.  Probably just a happy couple living happy suburban lives, completely innocent of the evil and torture the human mind could devise.  Here, in this place of peace on this perfect day, he knew what they had to do.   

"Did she write anyone while she was in jail?" Graham asked. 

Lisa had already thought of this.  After Susana's escape, she had gotten copies of any letters Susana had sent or received during her incarceration.  She consulted the file and flipped through them now. 

"She wrote her attorneys," Lisa said thoughtfully.  "There's a letter to Argentina we suspected was going to her mother.  She _got_ tons of mail, fan mail, interview requests, marriage proposals.  Some people."  She shook her head.  "She didn't answer any of that, though.  I've gone over it already."

Graham nodded and chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully.  "Someone got in contact with her somehow.  This murder was committed for a reason.  Martyr-style murders don't just happen, and Susana's never done them before.  I'm thinking she was sending a signal of some kind to someone."

"Look for the heretic, Starling.  Look for someone murdering martyr-style.  Find them, and you'll find Dr. Lecter." 


	13. Dinner and Entertainment

L'Auberge Chez François is considered to be one of the finest restaurants in Washington. Located in Great Falls, Virginia, it has consistently won accolades for atmosphere and food. It is a top pick for a dinner to celebrate special occasions. Lush Virginia woods cradle the white building. The staff is unpretentious and seeks to make diners feel welcome. And it was there, later that evening, that Susana Alvarez Lecter and Luke Taylor were enjoying dinner. The cheerful waiter had asked if it was madam's birthday or perhaps their anniversary. Rather than explain that madam was a federal fugitive and monsieur had kindly killed the people tracking her so she could return, Susana simply said it was their anniversary. 

Smiling across the table at Luke, Susana decided that he cleaned up nicely. The suit fit him well. He seemed to becoming more accustomed to this level of dress. A haircut, a shave, some cologne, and voila. He was quite presentable. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter, who three weeks ago had lived in the Alexandria Detention Center half an hour, thirty miles, and a world away from the best special-occasion restaurant in metro DC, adjusted the silk jacket that she wore over her evening gown. It matched the gown and was necessary. Although she was not the only woman in the restaurant wearing a fine gown, she most likely was the only woman in the restaurant carrying a pistol. She adjusted the shoulder holster carrying Kelly McNeely's service weapon and smiled. In the candlelight, her maroon eyes seemed the color of blood. 

"How are your scallops and shrimp?" she asked brightly. 

Luke Taylor swallowed a mouthful of food and cleared his throat. "Excellent," he said. He was slightly nervous in these surroundings. It seemed almost sinful to him. He could have gotten an entire meal for half the cost of the wine alone. He had yet to quite appreciate Susana's guiltless use of money. 

"How is the lamb?" 

"Wonderful," she smiled. Luke tilted his head and enjoyed the sight of her. She looked quite glamorous: her hair was in a styled up do, her makeup flawless. A gold necklace circled her neck, a single ruby hanging perfectly centered from it. It set off her eyes nicely. The gown and jacket were an attractive dark red shade of silk.

Luke leaned forward, even though he was extremely paranoid about getting food on his tie. He'd never dreamed of ties costing as much as this one did. But he wanted Susana to be happy, and so he had let her choose his suit. It seemed to be worth it. Luke Taylor had never thought he would be in a suit like this, in a restaurant like this, with a woman like Susana. 

"Well," Luke said, "I guess I'm curious about what comes next. We've gotten four of the dark disciples, but the other eight will be almost impossible to get." His tone was low and conversational: no one at the other tables paid him the slightest heed.

Susana smiled and reached across the table to take his hand. Hers was warm and made him tremble. He could feel sweat beginning to form against the back of the incredibly expensive suit jacket. 

"Luke, we don't even need to take out all eight," she said warmly. "Just two or so more, maybe three. Seven people cannot do the work of twelve. Besides," she explained, "you said yourself we can't…go after all of the heathens. And we don't have to." 

Luke blinked. He knew that he saw through a glass darkly, and it was perhaps not his place to know the Mind and Plans of God. Susana, somehow, had the gift of prophecy. He would have to remind her to cover her head: that was in the Bible too. Corinthians, it was. She would dishonor her head otherwise. 

"What is the plan, then?" he asked gently. 

"We're not trying to kill them all," she said. "If we had done nothing, they would hunt us – you and me both – down to the ends of the earth. No place would be safe. They would drag both of us in front of the judges and demand our blood." 

Her eyes hardened as she spoke. "By going after their seers – their witches – we accomplish two things. First of all, it will make it harder for anyone to find us. And secondly, they'll be defending themselves and wondering when the next attack is coming. That's where we want them. The best defense is a good offense." She had stopped using the religious terminology that Luke preferred. It didn't matter. He seemed to understand just fine. 

"And if we hurt them enough, they'll know that the cost of catching us is too high to pay. They'll beat their chests and talk about how no one evades their justice, but that's just talk. They'll stagger and lick their wounds, and you and I will be out of the country and to the promised land by the time they regroup enough to catch us." Her eyes gleamed. 

Luke seemed very interested. "The Promised Land?" he asked, the capitals clear in his speech. 

"Argentina," she explained. Luke looked puzzled. Susana grinned. 

"I know, you think it's some sort of stinking pit. It isn't. Beautiful churches, you know. Theater, opera, you name it. You and I will be down there, safe from them. Forever." 

Luke cogitated. "I can't work down there," he said. 

Susana looked insulted. "First off, you won't need to. I certainly don't. Secondly, it can be arranged if you really want to do it." 

"Can I ask you something then?" he said directly. 

She nodded. 

"Then why did you come back from Buenos Aires?" 

Susana thought for a moment on how best to answer. There were several reasons. The first was, simply, that she wanted the FBI—and her cousin—to pay for what they had done to her. Susana had been jailed, held captive, deprived of her property and rights. The specter of execution hung over her head. Dr. Hannibal Lecter might have told his daughter she lacked perspective, as he had once told her mother, but he could not. There was a deep groundswell of anger in the mind of Susana Alvarez Lecter, and it demanded payment for what she had been through in terms Biblical enough for Luke: the blood of the guilty parties.

Secondly, she knew that the hunt for her would go on. In Argentina, she could stymie them in the courts for years. The Argentine legal system would be loath to send her north to her death in any case, and by the time they were ready to send her, she could be safely hidden away somewhere else. But the FBI would continue the hunt, implacable as ever. Taking out the best hunters now would hobble them. 

But it was the third reason that she told him. In jail, Susana had come closer to despair than she would have ever admitted. Overnight, she had gone from a tony townhouse to a bathroom-sized cell she spent 22 hours a day in. Instead of being indulged in her every whim, as the wealthy often were, she had utterly no control over her own life at all. Other people decided when and what she ate, when she could shower, and what she was allowed to do. She was shackled like a dangerous animal when she was allowed out of her cell. At the few court appearances she had been obliged to make, she had been obligated to wear a stun belt under her clothing. From complete control over her life to none at all, and nothing she could do or say would change it.

Topping it all off, of course was the death sentence. Lisa Starling had been correct in pointing out to her cousin that she had not yet been found guilty, let alone sentenced, but Susana had been, and remained, convinced solidly that she would be given the death penalty if her trial had been allowed to continue through to its conclusion. The idea of spending the next few years entombed in concrete and steel, eating this swill and living in this tiny cell until it came her turn to be called into the death chamber and killed like a rabid animal frightened Susana. The idea of spending her natural life behind these walls, living this slave's life until she was old, knowing she would never be free, was only slightly less frightening to her. She was not used to being frightened. She hadn't felt that emotion since she had been sixteen, in a Buenos Aires basement. 

Then there had been the news of her mother's death, a keener blow since it meant she was all alone. No visits or letters from her mother to look forward to, no hope of rescue as her mother had once done before. The third blow, getting appendicitis, she was now able to be philosophical about. She owed her current freedom to that. And even at the time, there was some comfort in knowing she would either be free or dead. That no matter what she wouldn't be in jail anymore. But still, the unpleasant idea that McNeely might not believe her and let her die on the cold floor of her cell had played through her mind that day. 

But then, she'd sat in her cell looking at the radio that Lisa had given her and mulling over the news Lisa had given her too, wondering what could possibly happen to her next. The ministers had come to her door, and annoyed her with their syrupy words and watery promises. She'd ignored them and eventually they had gone away. She'd been looking at her ink tube at the time and trying to figure out how she could improvise a key with what she had before her appendix ruptured. It had been easy to ignore the ministers banging on her door. They were too afraid to attempt entering the cell itself. 

And then, in Susana's darkest hour, there was Luke. He, unlike the others, had told her he would come in the cell if she didn't talk to him. It had been his next words that caught her attention. 

"God wants you to be free," he'd whispered through her cell door.

She'd thought he meant in the stupid Christian born-again prison fashion, body incarcerated, 'soul' free. But he had not. He was utterly convinced that God would come down and set her free. He told her briefly about his martyrings. Susana asked him a few questions that only a real killer would know the answers to. 

She'd told him she was sick and would be either dead or in the hospital by the time lockdown rolled around. He had asked if he could help. She'd been loath then, not trusting him. He'd offered her his phone number and told her he would help her any way he could. She'd told him to get her clothes, hair dye, and to be ready to meet her at a moment's notice with no questions asked. He had simply nodded and agreed. 

So she was truly fond of Luke for that reason. He had been there for her when no one else had been. He had been willing to help her. Toronto had been fun, but it had been lonely as well. When she answered his question, her answer was not complete, but it was honest.

"I want you to be with me," she said. "I don't want to be alone." 

Luke smiled. Internally, he was awash in nervousness. His deepest dreams had come true: she wanted to be with him. But there were other parts of his mind, whispering from behind doors he had believed long shut, whispering with Mother's voice: _She's lying to you. She's either lying to you or she's crazy. You sniveling shit, who would want to be with you? She'll turn on you, she'll stab you and leave you in the street. She'll do it with other men behind your back, she'll laugh at you--. _He had to swallow and close his mind to the voice. 

__

Luke nodded. He did not know if he could speak without seeming weak. So he just nodded. Finally, he managed to say, "I want to be with you, too." His voice was calmer than he had expected and he was glad. Susana smiled at him and patted his hand. 

"Then we'll be together down there," she said. "You'll enjoy it, Luke. I promise." 

The raspberry torte for dessert was excellent, and they shared it. Afterwards, she chose a cappucino and he drank an espresso, enjoying its rich flavor. She paid, and that bothered him, although it did not seem to bother her a whit. The man should pay, he believed. It was his job to provide for his wife to be. The fact that Susana Alvarez Lecter was already fabulously wealthy did not change that. 

Outside was a limo trundling in the parking lot. They walked hand in hand out to it, where the chauffeur graciously opened the door for them. The back of the limo was quite large for two people, grand and elegant. The carpeted compartment separating them from the driver was closed. They kissed in the back of the limousine as it pulled out into traffic, two bloodthirsty monsters completely at peace with each other. 

"Ready for the live entertainment?" Luke asked playfully. This would be a good thing for her. He was proud that he had thought of it.

"Of course I am," Susana answered sweetly.

…

Joellyn Mackey turned into the driveway of her house and sighed. It had been another day on swing shift for her. Another day of whiny inmates, cell checks, and roll calls. Same as usual. Joellyn worked at the Alexandria Detention Center. Today had been a slightly exciting day only in that Ana Castillo had come back to the jail from Canada, where she'd been found hiding out. Joellyn thought Castillo was an idiot: someone had actually gone her bail, and the stupid kid had tried to run. Now she was back in lockup. Shoulda listened to the judge, kiddo.

The lieutenant was back, too. She'd been on administrative leave while they investigated the escape of Susana Alvarez. Joellyn couldn't wait until they brought that one back. She'd taught Susana who was boss when she had the chance, and she'd do it again once they brought her back. She thought about the look that would be on Susana's face when they jugged her back in her cell. Maybe then Lieutenant McNeely would learn what being such an inmate lover got you. 

Kelly McNeely had made it a point to respect her inmates' rights as much as she was able to. Joellyn thought she was nuts. She'd worked on male as well as female cellblocks, and it all was the same. They respected force. You had to show them who was boss. The male inmates would try to fight you. Most of the female inmates were simply crybabies, but those who would fight you were hellcats. If they feared you, you'd be OK. Joellyn had become quite skilled in making inmates fear her. They knew better than to whine to _her_. She would overtighten their handcuffs, take the baton or the pepper spray to them, or break what little things they had and valued. In short, Joellyn Mackey was a bully, and she was very, very good at it. 

But she might find out when the lieutenant dropped by later on tonight. She'd invited her by for a beer to celebrate her reinstatement. Much to her surprise, Lt. McNeely had accepted. Not too bad. Helped to be friends with the rank. You never knew when it could come in handy. 

So as she stepped out of her driveway and headed into her house. She was tired, but pleased with herself. In one hand she held a twelve-pack of beer she'd bought at a convenience store on the way home from work. She approached the door, beer in her left hand, keys jingling in her right. 

As she opened the door, something seemed different. The air was not as still as it should have been. She could sense something different. Joellyn frowned and put down the beer and keys in her foyer. She sidled across the hallway quietly, heading for the living room. Behind a curtain she kept a 12-gauge shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot. There it was. Its weight was comforting in her arms. 

A clink of glass from the kitchen. Joellyn's eyesn narrowed. Moving very quietly, deceptively quietly for a big, muscular woman, she passed through her cheap swinging doors into the kitchen. 

Seated at her kitchen table was a tall, cadaverous guy she'd seen before. Wait. Work. No, he wasn't a CO. Something else…oh yeah. Ministry. Those jail ministry pukes who came around and sang about Jeeee-zus to the inmates, like God would give a rat's ass for a bunch of lowlife inmates. 

"What the fuck are you doing here?" she said, raising the double-barrel to her eye. 

Amazingly, he grinned. "Do you believe in God, C.O. Mackey?" 

That's it. Some drug fiend. Probably had a brother or something in lockup himself, or been there. She'd blow him away and worry about it later. 

"You're gonna find out if there is one," she said, and pulled the triggers. Both triggers. Three things happened when she did. 

The first was that two impotent metallic clicks sounded from the twin chambers of the shotgun. Upon hearing them, Joellyn's face fell. _No wait…that can't be…I check 'em every weekend…that gun's loaded. _

The second was that Luke Taylor threw back his head and laughed. "Ah, C.O. Mackey. Don't you know that faith alone will save thee?" 

The third was that Susana Alvarez Lecter pushed through the swinging door from where she'd doubled back through Joellyn's inexpensively furnished living room. The end of the baton she'd taken from Kelly McNeely whistled through the air and landed on the back of Joellyn Mackey's head. It made a meaty _thud _when it hit. Joellyn's unconscious body, when it hit the ground, also made a meaty _thud. _

…

Kelly McNeely downshifted, looking around for the damn side street. There were several The Shadow's engine grumbled in protest. Windhorst Drive, there it was. She caught the turn and drove down the street, looking for Joellyn's house. 133, there it was. She pulled up in front of it and sighed. She was wondering what she was going to say. 

She was Joellyn's superior, of course. But that didn't make it easier. They'd never been close. Kelly wanted a smoothly run cellblock. She didn't think it was necessary to use force, but she would if it was strictly necessary. Joellyn seemed to enjoy tormenting the inmates out of sheer malice. Lt. McNeely had heard the rumors, but very few inmates were willing to tell her: they believed that she would side with the C.O. no matter what. 

So when Joellyn had invited her over for a beer, she thought it would be a good way to bring it up. Here, where it would be private. Maybe she could get the other woman to settle down and ease up. She could always send her off the cellblock, but that wouldn't solve the main problem. Abusive guards were bad for things: they made the inmates angry and resentful. 

So she was preoccupied when she went up and knocked on Joellyn's door. As she heard footsteps approaching the door, she was thinking of how to phrase it. _Joellyn, I've heard some complaints about you being too rough with the inmates…You know, Joellyn, physical force is a last resort, not a first…Joellyn, you're a sadist and a bully. Quit it. _

As a result, she was only half paying attention when the door opened. She could be forgiven this: after all, she expected to see her underling before her when the door opened. But the woman inside was not Joellyn: she was shorter and thinner. A confused glimpse of glittering maroon eyes flashed across Lt. McNeely's vision. Something with great power and force grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the house. 

_Whatthehell? _she had time to think quickly. Then she was smashed against the wall, drywall crumpling around her head. A starfield burst into life in front of her vision. Dazed now, she tried to defend herself, her arms coming up to try and break Susana's grip. But this was not a weakened, sick woman she was facing: this was the monster at top form and strength. Susana flipped her neatly, and then she was on the floor, carpet fibers in her nose, her eyes woozy.

A voice in her ear, calm and mocking: "You know what happens now, Lieutenant. We've done this before, haven't we?" She knew who had her then, and she tried to twist out of Susana's grip. But she was dazed and Susana was not. Not thirty seconds had passed from when she'd been outside the door. Then Susana's arms were weaving around her neck and pressing. Kelly McNeely grabbed at the arm circling her throat, aware that she had to get it off her or it would be too late. 

Inexorably, Susana's arms tightened. Kelly McNeely fought until the end, but sparkles burst over her vision and suddenly her arms would no longer obey her commands and fell limp, and then she knew no more. 

Susana hauled the lieutenant into the kitchen, where Joellyn Mackey sat in a wooden kitchen chair, her hands cuffed behind her. She arranged McNeely in the seat across from her and cuffed her too. 

"I hope you didn't expect her to save you," Susana said to Joellyn. 

Joellyn Mackey was a bully, but she was not an idiot, and simply turned her face away. She glanced out on her patio, where Luke Taylor was tending the coals of her grill. _What the fuck do these two want anyway? _

"Do those cuffs hurt?" Susana asked. 

The cuffs on Joellyn's wrists were fastened down as tightly as Susana could make them close around the larger woman's wrists. They cut into her skin, leaving visible red divots. The hands themselves were choked red with blood that could not pass. 

"No," Joellyn said, not wanting to let Susana have the victory of knowing that it hurt. Actually, 'hurt' wasn't the correct term: beyond the steel tourniquets binding her wrists she felt very little. Circulation had been cut off fifteen minutes ago. A vague discomfort was all she felt. 

"I imagine they would have gone numb by now," Susana allowed. "After all, the day you took me to my arraignment, _my _hands were numb by the time you had me in the van. And then there was that little matter of the stun belt…," 

"You want me to say I was sorry?" Joellyn spat. "You want me to cry? I'm not gonna, Alvarez. You're gonna kill me anyway, so get to it." 

Susana shrugged. "I don't expect an apology from the likes of you," she said delicately, "so I'll settle for your acceptance." 

Joellyn looked at her dubiously. 

"Acceptance of the matter that things have changed," Susana explained. "When I was a prisoner, you took the opportunity offered you to indulge yourself in needless torments. Now, things have not worked out to your advantage, and I'm the one indulging myself. Chin up, C.O. Mackey. You should have known this was coming." 

She glanced over at Luke through the kitchen window. He waved at her and held up a steel bowl. She smiled like a young girl and waved back at him. Slumped in her chair, Kelly McNeely coughed and stirred. Susana walked over to her and took her chin. The lieutenant's eyes swam into focus as they fixed on her prior prisoner's face. 

"Lieutenant," Susana said delicately. "What a surprise. I'm glad you could join us. This is something you ought to see." 

"Susana," Kelly said weakly, "I don't know what you think you're doing, but…," 

"I'm not thinking of doing it, Lieutenant. I _am_ doing it. And please, spare me the 'you'll just get in worse trouble if you do this', as there isn't much more you can do to me." She dismissed her jailer and turned her attention to her own prisoner. 

"I'll be kinder to you that you were to me," Susana said meditatively. "You may have one wrist free. Right or left?" 

From the look on Joellyn's face, she knew there was some trick. She would find out soon. 

__

"Right," she said finally. 

"Very well," Susana said, and unlocked the cuff around Joellyn's right wrist. She locked the empty cuff around the back of the chair, so Joellyn couldn't move that hand. Carefully, she allowed the larger woman to bring her arm around in front of her. The hand itself was still numb. 

Kelly McNeely somehow knew that something was about to happen just before it did. One moment, Susana was allowing Joellyn to bring her arm around in front of her. She held Joellyn's wrist with her left hand to assure control. The next moment, Susana's right hand plucked something off her belt. There was a flash of silver and Susana's arm raised high in the air. Then, Susana's arm came down, and there was a wet sound of steel punching through meat and wood. Both correctional officers gasped. 

Sticking out of Joellyn Mackey's palm was the handle of an ice pick. Feeling had not returned to her hand yet, so there was no pain. But the hand was pinned down neatly as a butterfly; the shaft of the ice pick driven all the way through the meat of the palm to the table. Joellyn turned pale, her fingers fluttering like trapped animals. Slowly, the hole in her hand grew lined with red as blood rose to the wound.

Luke came in. He had donned a black ski mask, so that the lieutenant would not recognize the jail minister who came in and preached to her inmates. He held a steel bowl with gloved hands. Heat radiated from the bowl. Sticking out from the bowl was a set of metal tongs. He put the bowl down on the table. 

"There you go," he said, and gave Susana his gloves. "Red-hot coals, just like you wanted." 

Lt. McNeely pulled away from the bowl. "Susana…listen to me. You know I was fair to you." 

"Yes, you were, Lieutenant," Susana rejoined, "but C.O. Mackey was not. She over-tightened my handcuffs anytime she took me out of my cell. She's done it to other prisoners, or so I've heard." She speared the cuffed woman with an unforgiving look. "So I must _presume_ that she did so with your knowledge." 

"No," Lt. McNeely said, and leaned forward. Susana took out a flat packet of incense and carefully broke up the sticks into fragments. She dropped them into the bowl of charcoal briquettes. A pleasant aroma arose from the bowl. 

"Susana, I was going to talk to her about that tonight. No one mentioned anything to me." 

"You wouldn't have done anything," Susana said flatly. "You knew about the stun belt. I do know that, Lieutenant." 

Kelly McNeely sighed, her heart racing. She did know about that. Susana had been required to wear a stun belt to court, as an extra means of control. Essentially, it was a stun gun that a prisoner wore; an obstreperous prisoner would get a 50,000 volt shock to the kidneys. It was an effective means of controlling the most dangerous prisoners. 

But Susana had behaved herself, and there hadn't been any reports. She'd suspected Mackey as soon as she put Susana in the shower later that day and seen the welt on her back. Mackey had denied it, but the mark was plain as day. Mackey had zapped her with the belt, probably just to show her who was boss. 

"You never said anything about that," McNeely implored. "I would have done something." 

Susana shook her head. "You'd have yelled at her or put a meaningless letter in a meaningless file somewhere," she said. "Nothing would have changed. And I prefer to take my revenge personally."

She dropped a hot charcoal briquette calmly into Joellyn Mackey's palm. Almost immediately, a sizzling sound arose from Joellyn's palm and an anguished scream from her throat. Calmly, Susana brought out another. 

"This is an old style of torture," she said calmly. "They'd force you to sprinkle incense to the idol. Mixed with hot coals, of course. It forced you to scatter the incense. But Joellyn's going to have a little problem with that, isn't she?" 

Joellyn tried to dump the coal out of her hand. Raising it was impossible, and she could not tilt her hand very far either way until the steel shaft through her palm stopped her. Her eyes clamped shut and a scream labored in her locked chest. But she did not scream openly. She did not want Susana to have the satisfaction of knowing how much it hurt. 

"Oh, you'll scream," Susana assured her in a just-us-girls tone. Her gloved hand clamped down over Joellyn's and forced the briquette into her palm. A pained grunt escaped the tortured woman's chest. A frying smell escaped her destroyed hand. When Susana let her fingers up, the pads of her fingers were twisted and burnt. 

When the coal was no longer hot, Susana replaced it with another, then another. She sent the bowl back to Luke for a refill. Eventually, Joellyn did scream. Her hand was blackened and charred, a claw of a hand pinned to the table. Lt. McNeely looked sick. Susana seemed pleased with herself. 

"Okey dokey," Susana said. "I think I've made my point there, C.O. Mackey. I'll let you have what you want now." 

She picked up another glowing coal with the tongs and grabbed a handful of Joellyn's hair with her left hand. Her head swiveled down to look the doomed woman in the eye. 

"Any last words?" she asked curiously. 

Joellyn sobbed. 

"I'll choose some for you." She pretended to think. "Take this as a warning, fellow C.O.'s," she began grandly. "Learn from my example. Don't be cruel to helpless inmates who have no recourse against you. You might end up like me." She smiled cruelly down at Joellyn's tear-stained face. Her tone shifted. 

"Are we ready?" 

"Don't," McNeely whispered strengthlessly. She knew what Susana had in mind. "God, please, Susana, don't. If there's anything I can do, anything I can say that'll make you stop--," 

"There isn't, Lieutenant," Susana said. She brought the glowing coal down into Joellyn Mackey's left eye. The doomed woman screamed and tried to throw her head around, but she was weak from her torture and Susana was able to control her head. The glowing ember sizzled through her eye. Its heat enabled it to simply burn through anything in its path. Then it was through the eye and into the abusive correctional officer's brain. 

Susana pulled the tongs free and stared at their empty jaws for a moment. 

"Damn," she said. "I lost it." She dropped the tongs onto the table with a metallic _clack_. 

Then her head tilted and she took in the cuffed redhead before her for a long moment. Kelly McNeely trembled. Helpless in front of her most dangerous charge. Would Susana kill her? Did Susana care that McNeely had been respectful of her? She knew what Susana was thinking – they could only execute her once. 

"Now then," Susana said conversationally. "Whatever am I going to do with you, Lieutenant?" 


	14. Striking Twice

They were arguing. 

He sat at the table, watching her resolutely. She stood, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes sparking anger. He shook his head. He hadn't meant to set her off like that, but it was just an idea. He thought she needed to work on her ability to cope with dissenting opinions. It was late, and they were both tired. Profiling can be mentally tiring work, putting yourself in the shoes of people who commit unspeakable acts, and tempers can fray as the hours pass. 

She glared at him. How could he suggest such a thing? Was he mad? Did he not respect her? She'd often privately wondered if he didn't think that she was less capable because she was female. _That_ was something she would have to set him straight on. Damn quick, if you please.

Their first argument. 

"Lisa," Will Graham said in the reasonable tones of men who feel unfairly accused by women, "we have to consider all the options." 

"Don't tell _me_ she fled the country," Lisa said vehemently. "I know her. She might leave, but not until she's finished whatever she's setting out to do." 

"You don't have any positive proof that Dr. Lecter was responsible for Black Wednesday," Graham said delicately. 

"Yes, I do," Lisa said, her eyes dancing sparks. "Susana commits a murder in Toronto. A murder that doesn't match _any _of her prior murders. She doesn't know these girls. She has no reason to kill them. But she does, and she does so in a manner that's very stylized. This took forethought and planning. The _very next day_, four people in Behavioral Sciences are slaughtered? And you think that's _coincidence_?" 

"The possibility exists," Graham said defensively. "And even if she did, let's look at things. None of the witnesses have seen Dr. Lecter at the crime scenes. Two people at Warner's and Suttler's both saw a _man _leaving the scene, but not a woman. Now maybe she did have something to do with it. But we know she didn't." 

"And what's with all this Dr. Lecter stuff anyway?" Lisa burst out. "Her name is Susana Alvarez. That's her legal name. She's never been Dr. Lecter." 

"She used it as an alias," Graham said. "And it just helps me think of her that way, that's all. Does it matter?" 

Lisa rolled her eyes and flapped her hands. "Fine. Call her Dr. Lecter if you want. But don't be surprised when people think you're talking about Hannibal." 

"And the fact of the matter is, you _don't _know that Dr. Lecter did not leave the country. Suppose this was a signal. She's in Toronto. She knows we can't get her back without a lot of legal fuss, and she can fuss because she's on capital charges. So you think she comes back here, where we could get her with no problem at all? The first Dr. Lecter would never do that," he said, thinking back. "He would have done exactly what he did do: flee the country." 

"He came back," Lisa pointed out. 

"After seven years, and when he had to. And he just set up shop quietly. And it was a couple of months, then he and Agent Starling were happily shacked up in Argentina with nary a care." 

The mention of her first cousin nettled Lisa, as it had ever since she entered the Academy. "Look," she said. "I know Susana Alvarez Lecter." In the heat of the moment, she did not have the faintest idea that she had referred to her cousin by the name she preferred. "I was the one who caught her, you know. She's cockier than her father was. She's got two main weak points: she likes the very best, just like he did, and she thinks she's smarter than everyone else. That's how I caught her. I figured she'd be living somewhere ritzy, and somewhere right under our noses. She knows this area. She's been here before. It would be either here or another big city, but probably here. _I_ was the only one who thought that. Everyone else thought she was in another country." 

Will simply looked at her. Despite the argument, he was interested in knowing how they'd caught Susana. 

"I went looking for ritzy places to eat, ritzy places to shop, and ritzy places to live," Lisa said. "New townhouse development. Huge inside, no work at all outside, the complex does it all. They rake your _leaves_. There's a gourmet supermarket just up the street. It's right close to the highway so she could shop in the city. She was living less than twenty miles from _Quantico_. It was her type place. I thought it was likely she would be there. Went looking for single women who'd bought a unit in the past year or so. Got a list of fifteen or so. There she was, right there, driving a brand new Jaguar, working in a group private practice. Did some intel to see when she got home, when we could collar her. _I _did it. They wouldn't have caught her if not for me." She pointed at Will Graham. 

"I don't doubt that, Lisa," Graham said. "I'm sure you did a lot of hard work and I'm sure you know her well. But she never was in jail before and she never had death penalty charges on her head before. Don't you think those two things might change her behavior? Pretty heavy-duty things, don't you think?" 

"At _first_, yes," Lisa said irritably. "That's why she went to Toronto, so she could fight extradition if she got picked up. But it wouldn't affect her behavior permanently. She is what she is. I'm telling you: she's here, and she's going to stay here until she's done. I agree she's got an accomplice. I thought that the night she escaped. But she's not going to sit in Buenos Aires and talk to him on the phone. She wants to be here, so she can take over if things go wrong."

"You're quite sure on this," Graham said calmly. 

"Will," Lisa said firmly, "I know her better than anyone else in the FBI. I know what she likes to eat, what she likes to shop for, and how she likes to live. I am _not _wrong on this. She is _here, _she is _not _going to flee, not until she's done what she's set out to do."

Will Graham chuckled shortly and thought for a moment. Lisa was so vehement. That was good and that was bad: it was all well and good that she was determined to see her cousin behind bars, but she was so dead set on it. She didn't take well to having her theories questioned. He supposed she felt some guilt about her cousin's escape and her unwitting hand in it. And it was late and she was young. Well, he'd have to correct himself there – everyone was young compared to him. 

He let out a long, slow breath. He smiled to diffuse the situation as he spoke. 

"And who am I to argue," Will Graham said slowly, "with the profiler who caught Dr. Lecter?" 

Lisa sighed. "Will…that's not what I meant. I know you mean well. But we can't bluesky about whether or not she's fled the country. She hasn't. I'm telling you. She is responsible for the deaths of many federal officers, and that _includes_ Black Wednesday." 

The hardest part of profiling is getting all the facts in front of you. It is relatively easy for a good profiler to walk in the shoes of the UNSUB once they have it. It is the tiresome, tedious details of studying a crime scene that makes profiling such a difficult job. Will thought that perhaps it was time to call it a night. 

"Look," he said, "it's late and we're both cranky. Maybe we ought to pick this up tomorrow after a good night's sleep." He yawned, exposing his teeth – still his own, even after all these years. 

"All right," Lisa hedged. "See you tomorrow?" 

"I'll need a ride," Will said. "Haven't driven since you were in diapers." 

Lisa chuckled. Will seemed to enjoy playing the crusty old man at times. When he was in a better mood, he had tried telling her that when he was on duty, pterodactyls flew around Quantico. She'd asked him if that meant cavemen had roamed its grounds when she was born. 

"I'll pick you up," Lisa said, laughing in spite of herself. Laura Miehns stepped forward from where she had discreetly secreted herself while they argued. She insisted on making Lisa wait in the unit while she checked the hallway. She also required Lisa to take the stairs instead of the elevator. Lisa counted herself lucky: the HRT commandant would have probably preferred to keep Lisa in a metal box and wheel her from place to place, given her druthers. 

After they left, Will Graham looked desultorily around the small apartment he called home now. Assisted living complex, they called it. They'd told him when he moved in that he would have as much independence as he was able. The staff was there to help. There was a good medical staff available, which was comforting to a man of Will Graham's age. 

But there were some things he found annoying. The staff was unfailingly polite to him, but he could always sense the polite contempt that the young held for the very old. The electric outlets all came equipped with built-in covers. Apparently they were afraid that if he were left to his own devices, he might try jamming a fork in the outlet for kicks. It also vaguely bothered him that complete strangers had access to his apartment. 

But in this he was luckier than most. He had an HRT bodyguard assigned to his door. No one got in or out. The fellow seemed nice but quite professional. So far, he had simply stayed outside the door and left Will Graham to his own devices. Will preferred it that way. 

Above him, Will knew, were the less fortunate denizens of the home. There lived people who could not take care of themselves in any way shape or form. It was more nursing-home-like up there. Will would occasionally have a staff member cook him dinner, and they would clean the place for him. That was just fine. He had a special chair with a motor. When he flipped a switch, the chair would rise to an almost-standing position. It made it easier for his creaky old bones to stand. It was also a lot of fun, and his first night here he had played with it ceaselessly, _vrummm _up, _vrummm _down. 

The staff wondered about Lisa. He could tell that. One aide had politely asked if Lisa was his daughter. When he'd said no, he could tell without needing to ask what they were thinking. It made Graham laugh. A man of his age, having an affair with a woman who could have been his granddaughter. Yeah, sure. 

"C'mere, honey, give Grampa some sugar," he said to the empty air, and snickered to himself in the lonely room. It sounded weird, but hell, he was ninety years old. He should be allowed some black humor if so he chose. He wondered idly what the front desk would do if he called down and asked them to send up a shapely young aide to give him a bath and decided that he was becoming depraved in his extreme old age. 

Still, it was a nice place, and the government was paying for it while he was up here. He didn't mind helping at all. It gave him something to do. And the search for Dr. Lecter, while frustrating as anything, made him feel useful again, needed again. Molly had died twenty years ago; his son – he never thought of him as his stepson anymore – was fifty himself, two grown grandchildren and a great-grandchild on the way. All there had been for Will to do was rock on his doorstep and wait for death to come get him.

But not anymore. Now there was someone to hunt. And his old department needed him. The hunting had not changed, but the tracking methods had. Will was glad for Lisa: when he had last been an active agent, PC's were still toys. He didn't know how to use them well. Lisa did. She'd showed him how she searched records to try and find Susana, looking for extravagant purchases and trying to nail them down. There was something pleasant in watching her, knowing that the law enforcement of the next generation would be equally equipped to use the computers, as well as the crooks. Will found it sad and amusing at the same time: he felt like such a relic as she surfed through databases and pulled things off the Internet. He had manfully fought the urge to flap his arms and scowl _All these newfangled computers, flibbity-floo_, though, and that had to count for something. 

She'd also insisted on seeking out other women under a death sentence and seeing if Susana had borrowed any of their identities. Graham thought she was off base on that. That had been a bit of cutesy Dr. Lecter had indulged herself in while she was holed up in Toronto. She'd be playing it more conservatively now. 

He listened to the bits of life that he could hear. Mrs. Moore, next door, talking to a doctor. He could hear her through the walls. They were on the thin side. Presumably the builders had figured the residents would be stone deaf and unable to hear each other. _Oh, stop being such an old coot, Will. _

"Oh, you're such a nice young lady," Mrs. Moore was twittering. "I hope you stay here. Some of the doctors here are just so _rude_, you know." Will tuned it out. Mrs. Moore had things to say about just about everything. The doctors were rude. The aides didn't clean her apartment adequately. They didn't cook food the way she wanted. God only knew how the doctor she was talking to avoided this opprobrium. 

A quick rattle and squeak of a cart being pushed along the floor. Will tilted his head. _Medication call? _No, it was too early for the dope cart to be around with its little pills guaranteed to bubble away the trouble of old age. Or at least dope you up so you didn't complain about it. He chuckled. His grumpy old man mode seemed to be in rare form tonight. But hell, if you couldn't be a grumpy old man as a ninety-year-old widower, then when _could _you be? 

A jocular hey from whoever was pushing the cart. A clipped, official "Hello," from the guard at his door. He wondered who was pushing the cart. Some young buck, of course, confident that old age would never steal _his _strength, unlike the dried-up husks he served. 

Now there was the tumble of cardboard boxes from the cart, rumble bump bump. Plastic bottles rattling on the floor. A curse from the attendant. 

"Hey man, could you give me a hand with this?" 

A sigh from the door guard as he considered the request. Footsteps from the door as he meandered away to help. _Careful there, sport, the oldster you're guarding might wander off on you while you're being a Boy Scout. _He sighed. 

There was a muffled grunt and a thud outside. Graham suddenly shivered. It was not repeated. The hall was silent. He pricked his ears for sound. There it was, someone whistling in the hall. 'Amazing Grace'. He heard the squeak of the wheels again as the cart moved down the hall. The whistling went with it. 

_Quit being such a scared old man. You've got a guard. No one's going to do anything to you – if they were, they'd pick someone who didn't have an armed member of the HRT at their door. _

Will sat in his chair, feeling a strange sort of uneasy free-floating nervousness. It had been half a century since Hannibal Lecter had gutted him. But it was that same feeling, the feeling he'd had in his office, looking at the psychiatrist talking so calmly to him. But he was no longer a hale forty. He was ninety and he was frightened. 

Will glanced over at the phone. He could call Lisa. She would come for him. But no, she was tired, and what was he going to do? He had little doubt that Lisa would comfort the old man with the heebie-jeebies, but she would think less of him for it. She'd deny it to hell and back, but in her heart she'd think of the old man who got frightened and needed his hand held. 

He closed his eyes and sank his head back against the headrest of his chair. His heart was pounding. He took deep breaths. _Careful on that ticker, Will – it's a long time out of warranty. _He thought about how paper-thin the walls of his heart must be after ninety years of beating, and made himself think about something else. 

Mrs. Moore. He could hear Mrs. Moore through the walls. Concentrate on the old biddy. 

"Ooooh,, that smarted," she said indignantly. He could hear it clear as a bell, as if she was standing in his living room instead of her own bedroom. "What was that for, doctor?" 

"That's to help you sleep, Mrs. Moore," the doctor answered with the patience of a saint. 

"How am I supposed to sleep after you stabbed me with that? There's a _huge _hole in my arm. It hurts. I can't go to sleep with my arm hurting." 

"It won't hurt for long, Mrs. Moore," the doctor sighed. "Soon…you won't feel a thing." 

Will's eyes leaped open. It was neither the words nor the voice, strictly speaking. But there was a mocking tone in the voice he remembered. The aural equivalent of the superior expression that Hannibal Lecter had always adopted. 

With trembling fingers he pressed the switch on the arm of his chair. _Vrrrrmmmmmm. _The motorized chair rumbled slowly, up, up, up. Much too slowly. Will felt sweat break out against the back of the oxford shirts he still insisted on wearing. Up, up, and still only halfway. 

_Calm down, Will. Just tell the guard you think something's up. Fear paralyzes the mind. Don't…you've lived through much worse. It's nothing. You're going to feel like such an idiot. You are. The guard will be there and Mrs. Moore will be biddying away until her damn shot takes effect. _

It seemed to Will Graham that he had lived another ninety years in the time it took the chair to raise him to that almost-standing height. Finally, it did. He walked to his door with the short, hesitant steps of an old man. His blocky old hand splayed out and he grasped the easy-to-open handle. He'd had a touch of arthritis in his hands – nothing too bad, thank God. But when he gripped the doorknob his knuckles sang with pain. He closed his eyes. _Just psychosomatic, Will. Now quit it. You're just a silly old man with the spookies. _

He turned the handle. Already he was drawing in a long breath, in order to tell the guard to please call down and check on Mrs. Moore, please. He envisioned how the guard would simply nod at him professionally: "_Yes, Mr. Graham." _Any contempt hidden behind his razor-sharp military manners. 

He peered out into the hallway. 

The _empty _hallway. 

Will Graham looked around for his guard or the man with the cart. He saw neither. He began to tremble. His voice was papery and wheezy when he spoke. The querulous voice of an old man. 

"Guard?" He couldn't remember the guard's name. "Agent? Are you there?" 

The mocking silence of the empty hallway was all the reply he got. 

Years ago, Will Graham had been a hero. He had tracked down killers, saved lives, and protected the weak. He was proud of that. But now, the aim that had taken out Garrett Hobbs was gone, his eyes behind thick glasses and his hands too trembly. The man who could run, fight, and defend himself and others was long gone. Age and time had stolen his ability to shoot, to punch back. So one must forgive Will Graham for being frankly terrified as he saw that his guard was no longer there. 

He let the door close and fumbled at it. The deadbolt was too thin and hurt too much for his fingers to grasp it. But he did hit the lock button on the handle itself. It would do. It would have to. Slowly, Will turned and began to shuffle back towards the phone. 

When he had been a much younger man, this trip would have been barely worth mentioning. Five or six big bounds across the floor, and the phone would be in his hand. But he wasn't anything even resembling young, and the thirty feet between his front door and the kitchen phone seemed like thirty miles. But Will was as determined as he had ever been. 

_You're just being a silly old man. But Lisa's bodyguard there, that's the leader of the HRT. She'll kick his ass for leaving his post. C'mon now. Laugh at me all you want, Lisa, you too Laura. I've been on the job myself, and right now two armed FBI agents are just would make this old man feel a LOT better. I know it's probably nothing. But right now, I don't care. Just humor me. You'll understand when you're old ladies._

… 

In the hallway, Susana Alvarez Lecter stepped out and checked her watch. Lieutenant McNeely would be coming up on eighteen hours locked in Joellyn Mackey's bathroom. The bathroom was approximately the same size as Susana's cell had been. A blanket laid down in the tub made for as good a bunk as Susana had been expected to sleep on. True, McNeely hadn't had someone checking in on her every fifteen minutes, but then again she would only do the one day. Susana had neither killed nor tortured the lieutenant: McNeely had been civil to her. Plus, Susana knew that she would be dead if not for the lieutenant. While that chafed at her – she hated to owe anyone anything – it also meant that Kelly McNeely was a member of a very rare group: those who Susana would refrain from killing even when offered the opportunity.

Susana had every intention of letting the lieutenant out once she'd spent 22 hours locked in. After all, fair was fair. The lieutenant had always been polite to her, and had made sure not to be late for her out time. But she deemed it fair to lock Susana down for 22 hours a day, so she would know herself what it was like. True, _she_ hadn't kept Susana in cuffs in her cell, but then again, she was getting out after only one day in lockdown. It evened out. 

She saw Luke rolling his cart down the hall, and she knew that the body of the guard was under it, covered by a white sheet. It wouldn't do for concealing him forever, but good enough for now. She waved to him. In his scrubs, he looked like every other aide here, muscular, clean-cut, and friendly. He waved at her, and crossed himself and then looked up, signifying that the guard was dead. She gestured at the door behind her with a thumb. Mrs. Moore had gotten a big enough shot of Pavulon that if she wasn't dead now, she would be soon. 

She slipped out of the doorway and kicked off her shoes. Sensible flats; this was work after all. She picked up the flats and stuffed them into the pocket of her lab coat, where they were separated from the flat profile of the 9mm she wore on her belt. 

Luke carefully trundled the cart containing her supples and the dead HRT guard into Mrs. Moore's apartment. She was pleased. The HRT guard had barely suspected a thing. She was surprised the man had left his post, but Luke had that effect on people. He looked completely open and trustworthy, just a working joe doing his job. The guard hadn't expected it, even when the Harpy she had given him slashed into his midsection. 

Luke came out and smiled at her. He reached out and took her chin, tilting her face up to kiss her. That surprised her and irked her a bit: this was work. Once they were done with their work for the night he could make out with her all night, if so he chose. But oh well, it wasn't that bad. 

"Good luck," he whispered. 

"Thank you," she whispered back, quite pleased that he hadn't said "God be with you" or some holy crap like that. He was eminently trainable, after all. 

Her nyloned feet were silent on the carpeted hallway. She plucked the passkey from her pocket and approached the door. She closed her eyes and thought of her father. She would make him proud.

…

Will moved forward as fast as he could, but the phone seemed to stretch away from him, mocking him. His heart pounded. He could feel sweat forming on his forehead, dripping down and stinging his eyes. Finally, he was there. He grabbed up the receiver. It seemed amazingly light in his hands. Not like the old workhouse Bell Telephone phones. 

He stared stupidly at the keypad. What was Lisa's number? He couldn't remember it. No. No. This couldn't be. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it wasn't. But he wasn't going to die because he couldn't remember a phone number. 

_Calm down. Think. You've still got your mind. You don't remember her phone number…because…, _

His ears pricked. Was that something outside? A scrape of someone walking by? No, no. Too quiet. His imagination playing tricks on him. 

_You don't remember it because she wrote it down for you. _

Ah yes. There it was, a yellow Post-it stuck to the wall by the phone. LISA'S CELL printed on it. Will punched in the numbers with shaking hands. There was an awful moment when he realized he'd misdialed. He punched the flash switch and started again. An electronic ring burred in the receiver. Will began to pant. 

The phone rang again. And again. Damn cell phones, they always rang six times for you before the phone on the other end rang once. Thank God he hadn't gotten that 'The person you are calling is unavailable or has left the calling area' message, something he cordially detested. Her phone was on. Thank God for that. 

_Dammit Lisa pick up this phone! _he thought, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, as if he could force Lisa to pick up the phone from here through sheer force of will. Behind him, unheard in his panic, the lock button on his door popped open. 

He heard the bizarre clack and rattle that you hear when someone is lifting a cell phone to their face. Then, blessedly, Lisa's voice. 

"Hello?" _Thunk rattle thud. _"Oh, hi Will." 

"Lisa," he said urgently. His heart was racing and he was hyperventilating. "Come back. I need you to come back." 

She sighed. "Oh, Will," she said. "Don't be mad. I guess I should apologize, I get carried away. But you know, it really means a lot to me to catch Susana…it's hard for me because she's my cousin. I'm sorry if I was mean, I was just…oh hell." 

"No, no," Will said. "There's someone here. My guard's gone. And I…," 

"Will?" Her voice was concerned. "Will, are you OK? Maybe you should call 911 or down to the desk. Do you want me to call there for you?" 

"No." He struggled to keep calm. "There's someone here, Lisa. Come back. I need you back. Now." 

"Will?" He could hear her tone constrict. "OK, I'm turning around at the next exit. I want you to sit down and wait until I get there." 

Will Graham froze. He could almost feel his heart stop for several moments. His hand gripped the smooth plastic of the phone handset uselessly. 

He felt breath. Hot breath on the back of his neck.

…

Lisa Starling was on the Beltway, heading for her condo. She was tired and annoyed. She didn't understand why Will was quarreling with her. Well, wait. Yes, she did. He was simply trying to make her think. But dammit, she _knew_ that Susana was around. Why couldn't he accept that she knew her cousin best? 

Behind her was Laura Miehns's unmarked prowl car. Lisa grinned and put the Trans Am up to eighty to test her keeper. The prowler dropped back but caught up quickly. Ha ha. 

Susana. Susana Susana Susana. Where was her damn cousin anyway? Somewhere local, that was for sure. The Black Wednesday murders all indicated a killer familiar with the area. And somehow she just knew her cousin wouldn't stay too far from whatever she had unleashed. 

So…what was her goal,anyways? To cripple Behavioral Sciences? That seemed to be the most likely scenario. Susana would know that it was BSU who had tracked her down. Did she think that by wiping out a few profilers that they wouldn't get her again? 

That thought led to a more unpleasant one: What if Susana targeted _her_? Lisa had always thought that her cousin wouldn't kill her. It wasn't because of anything so mundane as family. No, that was not Susana. But Susana had never known any relatives other than her mother and father. Lisa believed that Susana was fascinated by the idea of having relatives. That she was more like other people than she had thought. Therefore, she wouldn't kill Lisa because she would lose the only relative she had ever known other than Dr. Lecter and Clarice Starling. 

But maybe that wasn't true anymore. After all, Susana had to know that it was Lisa who had tracked her down. And Susana believed quite firmly that she would be sentenced to death for her crimes. Given those options, Susana just might decide to wipe out the resident expert on her, cousinhood be damned. It made for unpleasant thoughts. She was glad for the baleful headlights of the prowler behind her. 

Her phone rang. She reached into her pocket and held it to her ear. It was Will. 

"Oh, hi Will," she said. 

"Lisa," he said. "Come back. I need you to come back." 

The conversation ran its course. Lisa thought at first that he was upset about her leaving angry at him. Now she was worried that he might be having a heart attack. 

"OK, I'm turning around at the next exit. I want you to sit down and wait until I get there."

There was no reply. 

"Will?" she asked, her tone panicking. The phone clicked. She heard a muffled thump. Then the phone was lifted again. 

The voice that spoke was not Will's. It spoke three words. Three words that chilled Lisa Starling's blood in her veins and provoked a scream that made the windows of the Trans Am tremble. 

"Well, I declare," Susana Alvarez Lecter said into the phone. 

Lisa Starling screamed and slewed across the Beltway. 

"Susana?" she shrieked into the phone. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare hurt him, you fucking bitch!" 

"Why, Lisa," Susana returned calmly. "That was rude. And just what is it with you and older men anyway? I mean, Ralph Lima was sixty or so. And _this…_my, my, Lisa. Got any unresolved issues about your father?" 

Lisa got control of the car again and gripped the phone firmly. "Susana, goddam you," she said. "If you hurt him I swear to God, I'll hunt you down myself." Inwardly, she was still panicking. _I just left ten minutes ago! Ten freakin' minutes! How the hell did she manage that? _

"Idle threats, Lisa Starling." Susana sounded amused. Lisa could hear Will moan in the background. It stabbed her deeply. She began looking immediately for somewhere to turn around. 

"Lightning strikes twice, sometimes, Cousin Lisa," Susana Alvarez Lecter said thoughtfully. "Unfortunately for Will…so do Lecters." 

__


	15. Beowulf's End

_Author's note: This chapter is gory. Be warned. Or be intrigued, to my bloodthirstier readers. So come on in, sit down, learn about Norse literature, and re-visit history…_

Susana Alvarez Lecter took a moment to look over her captive with rich satisfaction. He trembled on Mrs. Moore's dinner table. Had she been around to object, that worthy lady would have no doubt twittered: _Mr. Graham, whatever are you doing duct taped to my table? A gentleman doesn't lie down on a lady's table, duct tape or no. _But a hefty shot of Pavulon had taken care of that. Mrs. Moore would twitter no more. 

The duct tape held him down firmly in wide strips across his chest, arms, and midsection. But his face and his stomach were free. Those were Susana's working areas. She gazed down on the bound old man with no small degree of pleasure. _Ah, papa, _she thought, _you would be so proud. _

Luke Taylor observed her with quiet happiness. He knew where he was supposed to be, but he had a few minutes. It had been easy enough to manhandle the old man into Mrs. Moore's apartment from his own – Susana could have done it herself, but he was glad to help. That was part of Christian virtue, to help carry the burden. Simon Cyrene had helped Jesus carry the cross, and Luke had helped Susana drag Will Graham into the other apartment. 

"You look happy," he observed. "I'll go now. Send him to Glory." 

Susana shook her head slowly. A wolfish grin wreathed her features. 

"Oh, no," she said, careful not to call Luke by name, "we'll wait until you get back. This is something we'll take very…slowly." 

Luke headed down the hall to Will Graham's open door. He stationed himself behind it, in the apartment. If there was more than one cop on the way, he would simply pretend to be an aide: he'd heard a crash and poked his head in to see if Mr. Graham needed help. But if Susana was right, and it was _just _Lisa…well, then he had other plans. 

Will Graham himself was terrified as he saw the younger man leave. He was obviously an accomplice. The main perpetrator was the young woman above him. His eyes swept across Susana's face. Quite beautiful, really, but it was a malevolent beauty. Her maroon eyes bored into him and he trembled. Those eyes made it exceedingly clear to Will Graham what—and _who—_she was. She resembled Clarice Starling much more strongly through the face. But those were Hannibal Lecter's eyes, unchanged and constant, glowing down at him in triumph. 

"Dr. Lecter," he said, his voice fearful. He wasn't sure if he was referring to the monster above him or the monster who had sired her. 

Susana's grin widened. "Why, thank you, Mr. Graham. It's so rare for anyone to address me properly." Her head tilted as she perused him. She seemed almost like a little girl at Christmas, unwrapping the gift she had so eagerly awaited. 

"You knew my father," she said. "You caught him. Papa told me that it was because you were just alike." 

Will Graham blinked. Of all the names he might have expected someone to call Hannibal Lecter, _Papa _had to be the very last one. He still thought of Lecter as slim, neat, and completely insane in his cell. Somehow inhuman in his cage and thoughts. A father? Hannibal Lecter? It seemed impossible. But here it was. 

"He was wrong," Graham managed. Susana's face clouded above him. Graham swallowed. He didn't want to beg – begging Hannibal Lecter's daughter would be as fruitless as begging Hannibal Lecter himself. But he didn't want to give her any more reason to hurt him worse than she was planning to already. 

"I suppose," Susana said, notes of displeasure in her voice. "He died a free man, with his family by his side. I can't say the same for you, but I'll get you _my_ family, all I can offer." 

Will's eyes narrowed. "Leave Lisa alone," he warned. "It's me you want." 

Susana chuckled and clapped her hands sarcastically. "How noble," she pronounced. "Defending the maiden fair to the last. But you're a little old for such knightly escapades, aren't you, Will? Fact is, the maiden fair's been taking care of _you, _hasn't she? So what do you think of my cousin, anyway?" 

"She's good at her job. She'll see you back in jail," Will said, studying her carefully to see her reaction. 

"Perhaps someday she will," Susana agreed, and then she grinned horribly at him. "But _not_ today." She reached out and touched his face. Her fingers gently pulled at his skin, seeking out the scars that her father had put there so many years ago. As she did, her face changed, her expression melted from sarcastic and cruel to…

Will stared, blinking through his fear. Dear God, it was _reverence. _Susana Alvarez Lecter, who held religion in high contempt, was seeking out his scars as if they were the Shroud of Turin. He'd sometimes thought half-jokingly to himself that he was a relic, but it wasn't a joke to her. He was a relic to her, a holy relic. Or his scars were. Or something. She traced the line her father's linoleum knife had taken down his face fifty years ago and drew in sharp breath. 

She closed her eyes and a look of combined exaltation and sadness came over her face. Will stared up silently, breathing very shallowly. Now was the time when she was most likely to be set off, and Will thought that maybe—just maybe—if he could stall for time long enough, Lisa might get here. With Laura Miehns. And eventually the whole reconstituted HRT. So he let the monster commune with her departed father silently. 

Then her expression hardened, and he could see she was thinking of things here and now again. Probably going to cut him. He clamped his eyes shut. He had known that death would come for him eventually, but he didn't want to die this way. 

"Aren't you curious about your father?" he asked. "How I caught him?" 

…

Lisa Starling's heart was racing. Susana had outwitted her somehow, sliding neatly past the guards, somehow getting past the staff, past the door guards. She had Will. Lisa had to act. She could not allow Susana to simply slide in and take Will. Not when she had worked with him.

But she was doing seventy on the Beltway as she went. She slewed into the leftmost lane and stared bitterly down the highway. Perhaps a quarter mile ahead was a pass-through on the left, so that police officers could sit in the middle of the highway and prowl for speeders. Her heart was pounding and her veins filling with adrenalin as she slid over onto the left-hand shoulder. As the pass-through grew closer, she slowed down a bit so she didn't roll the damn car over. That earned her an angry honk from behind. She ignored it. 

Lisa wrenched the wheel to the left. The Trans Am screeched as it turned, tires sliding. Through some miracle she did not slam into the concrete barrier. Then she was through. She almost rammed a Hyundai off the road as she got the Trans Am straightened out, but that mattered not a whit to her. 

Behind her, Laura Miehns stared baffled at the retreating car on the other side of the highway. What the hell? What had gotten into Starling? This was a police car, and had police lights under the grille. Good thing. She popped on the lights and pulled into the pass-through herself. She grabbed her cell phone and tried to call Starling's cell. No luck. 

"Goddammit," Laura Miehns said, and put it up to ninety, her lights going. 

She pursued the fleeing Trans Am up a few more exits. Lisa screeched off the exit ramp, tires wailing. She was doing at least fifty. Laura frowned. The big Crown Victoria was more than able to keep up, but that wasn't the problem. Something had to be going down, and it wasn't gonna be good. 

Ahead was a set of railroad tracks. Laura's eyes widened. The red lights of the railroad crossing were blinking, and the arms were lowering to block traffic. 

_Oh shit, watch out. _

Lisa whipped the wheel to the left, then the right and screeched over the tracks. A train horn sounded, a loud blare filling the world. Then she was gone. But Laura Miehns could not follow. She slammed on the brakes of the big car, screeching to a stop as the freight train thundered past a few feet ahead. She pounded the wheel in frustration. 

"Shit," she said desultorily. "Be careful, Lisa, I'll be there as soon as I can. But for God's sake, be careful." 

…

"I _know_ how you caught my father," Susana said indignantly. "It's all over the Internet. And there are plenty of books on him." She smiled. "You were…just alike." 

Will shook his head and smiled tiredly. "No, I wasn't," he said. "I just…knew it was him." 

"Yes, so you've said," Susana agreed. "Do you know who you remind me of, Mr. Graham?" 

Will Graham sighed. "Your father. I know." 

Susana shook her head. "Not him," Susana said. "Beowulf, actually. From old Norse literature. I presume you've heard of him?" 

Will thought back to his schooling so many years ago. "I guess," he allowed. "Tell me more about it. I want to hear more about that." 

"Stalling for time? That's all right, it won't help, Mr. Graham." Will tensed. "But I'll indulge you. Beowulf defeated first Grendel, then the mother of Grendel. Just as you defeated Garrett Jacob Hobbs, who was a big dumb forceful monster, like Grendel. Then my papa. He wasn't Hobbs's mother, of course, but Hobbs had been seeing him for a while – court appointed thing, as I understand – and it was papa who encouraged Hobbs to start killing once he moved back home." 

Her eyes gleamed down at Will. Despite his fear, the investigator in him was interested and he _did _want to hear more. To her, Garrett Hobbs would always be a remote figure, marooned in the past, known to her only by her father's words. No more real to her than a character in a children's story. But Will could recall watching Hobbs slash away at his own daughter's throat like it was yesterday. He trembled at the decades-old memory, its horror still fresh. But still…Lecter had treated Hobbs? When? Why in God's name hadn't anyone picked up on that? 

"I guess if you wanted to, you could see papa as the Mother of Grendel," she continued. _Pedantic, just like her father, _Graham thought, trying to keep his mind calm so that he could stall her. She raised her chin and sounded like an English teacher. "Papa set Hobbs loose, started him killing, and so you could draw parallels. He was the parent of the killer in Hobbs, one might say. Not an exact parallel, but close enough. So you killed Grendel and then you got the Mother of Grendel." She grinned. "Do you know the story, Will? Do you know what happened next?" 

"No," Will said, although he did. "Tell me. Let me hear…your wisdom." 

Susana let out a short, amazed laugh. "Mr. Graham! So very sly. You must think I'm Francis Dolarhyde…oh, don't look so surprised. I've heard the tape Mr. Lounds made. I'm not _that _vain." She grinned again. "Yes, I know about him too. And it's relevant." Her eyes were filmy with thought, her expression sardonic. 

"Beowulf lived for many years, rich and happy and at peace," she said. "I don't know if that part applies to you or not." Will smiled, despite his situation. Rich, no. But happy and at peace? As much as a man who has been cut open with a linoleum knife could ever be, yes. He'd had years with Molly and Willy. Good years. Susana continued. 

"But then a dragon came along when he was older," Susana said. Will heard the fourth word and shivered, thinking of Dolarhyde's yellow eyes. And the Jacobis and Leedses. "A servant of Beowulf's stole something belonging to the dragon, and the dragon was angry. So it started to attack the villages. Beowulf was an old man then, but he went into battle against the dragon anyway." 

Will shivered, thinking of horrors long past. He didn't know what point the monster was trying to get at, but he was more than willing to let her ramble. He thought of Lisa, and maybe her bodyguard, showing up with guns to end the literature lesson. 

"Dolarhyde," he breathed. 

Susana raised an elegant eyebrow. "You think?" 

"Has to be," Will said. "Dolarhyde was the Dragon. Had that big tattoo. He ate the painting, for God's sake." 

Susana looked surprised. Perhaps Dr. Lecter had not told her about Dolarhyde's bizarre pilgrimage to the Brooklyn art museum and his having eaten William Blake's painting. Will tried to remember how publicized that had been. _He _had known, but Lecter might not have. 

"You think Dolarhyde was the dragon?" Susana asked again. She crossed her arms at him.

"That's what he called himself," Will said, getting the idea it wasn't the answer she was looking for. "He called himself the Dragon, he made Lounds call him that, he had a big tattoo of the dragon on his body, and he ate the painting. Stuffed it in his mouth and ate it. What more do you need?" 

Susana chuckled, smiled, and shook her head sadly. 

"Perhaps he did," Susana said slowly, "but he's not the dragon in Beowulf." She leaned over him. 

Will stared up at her determinedly. Somehow, in his gut, he knew his time had run out. 

"Beowulf was an old man when he fought the dragon," Susana explained. "He knew it would be his final battle, but he went in anyway. And the dragon killed him. He had one helper with him, one loyal subject named Wiglaf." Her tone shifted from pedantic to conversational. "Quite a name, isn't it? Could you _imagine _naming your child Wiglaf? You weren't old when you went up against Dolarhyde, and you lived to tell the tale." She loomed over him and stared at him upside-down, looking down on him from the head of the table like a pallbearer staring into a grave. 

"But you _are _old now, Mr. Graham, and Wiglaf is rushing her way over here as we speak. Little Wiglaf – or Lisa, as she's called in this retelling of the tale – stole something from me, all right. My freedom. She'd have taken my life too, but she didn't get the chance. And so I am angry, and I am attacking your little village. Got four of your villagers already, did I not?" She smiled down at him coldly, but her eyes were angry. 

"_I _am the dragon, Mr. Graham. Not a harelip killer fifty years in his grave. And I'll do what both Grendel and the Mother of Grendel failed to do." 

Something silver glittered in her hand.

…

Lisa's heart was still racing and the engine still revving high when she screeched into the lot of Will Graham's assisted-living complex. She barely had enough control over herself to pull the Trans Am into a space instead of leaving it there. Then she was pulling the door open and drawing her gun all at the same time. Fortunately, the pistol was on safety; otherwise she would have likely shot herself in the foot. 

Heart pounding in her ears, Lisa raced into the building and charged for the stairs. The woman at the front desk let out a surprised gasp when she saw Lisa waving the pistol, but Lisa ran around her and headed for the stairs. 

Her running footsteps echoed crazily in the concrete stairwell. Up four flights of stairs, taking them two at a time, praying she would not be too late. She slammed open the door to the fourth floor. Her FBI instructor's voice immediately spoke up. _Check your corners. _She held the gun out in front of her, arms, body and head all rotating at once. Satisfied that her cousin was not in the hall, she charged ahead to his apartment. 

The apartment door was open. Lisa went in, gun muzzle first, forcing herself to slow down. Her eyes and arms were one, the gun muzzle covering whatever she looked at. There was no one in the living room. The phone was hung up neatly. Lisa stared at it for a long moment. 

A man in scrubs came out of the bedroom. Lisa aimed at him. He gave her a frightened look and raised his arms. 

"FBI, freeze," Lisa said, her eyes wide. "Who are you and what're you doing here?" 

"I'm an aide," he said. "I…I heard a crash and came in. The door was unlocked. I thought Mr. Graham might have fallen. I was just…trying to help." 

Lisa considered and lowered the gun. "Your name is?" 

"Umm…Jack Gordon," he said, looking relieved when she put it down. "Midnight-shift aide." 

"Did you see anyone?" she demanded. 

He shook his head. "He's not here." 

Lisa nodded and reached for her cell phone – what she should have done. She dialed the main FBI office number. She turned around, examining the living room floor for clues. When she'd left, Will had been sitting in his motorized lift chair. He seemed to like the thing a great deal: simple old age does not prevent a man from liking gadgets. Would he have gotten up out of it? Only if he had to go to the bathroom, and Lisa had the feeling he did not. 

She didn't know exactly what was happening until it was too late. She was trying to make out any drag marks in the carpet – Susana was not here, and the easiest way to get Will out of here would be to drag him. And then there was a tremendous whack on the back of her head. The world went blurry and the carpet was jumping up at her. As she tried to whirl, she felt the sting of a needle at her throat. She could see a white-garbed figure, too big to be Susana, reach down and pluck the Glock from her limp fingers. 

_The goddam aide? _she thought, and then she knew no more. 

When she regained consciousness, it was quick. She did not feel groggy or knocked out. One moment she was unconscious, the next moment her head was up and she was looking around. She blinked once or twice and took in the scene in front of her. 

It wasn't Will's apartment, but it looked similar. That meant she was still in the complex. She tested her jaw and found that something had been stuffed in her mouth. She was sitting in a chair, her hands cuffed behind her. When she tried to rise, she felt hands press down on her shoulders. The damn aide. Wasn't an aide after all, was he? Then she saw, and her eyes widened in shock. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter stood ten feet in front of her at a table. She wore a surgeon's gown over a pair of expensive slacks. She also wore latex gloves, shoe covers, and a victorious expression. 

"Well, I declare," Susana said. "Cousin Lisa, you're here. So nice to see you. Too bad one of us always has to be handcuffed, isn't it? But it _is _your turn, I wore them last time." 

Will Graham was on the dinner table, long strips of duct tape holding him down. He twisted his face over and gave Lisa a desperate, sick look. Lisa tried to scream, but the material stuffed in her mouth muffled it neatly. 

"Oh, don't bother," Susana smiled. "Come on now, cousin. You could be happy for me." She gestured to the unseen man holding her down. "I've met someone very nice, and here I get to touch something my father has touched." She chuckled coldly. "This is…kind of exciting for me." 

She lifted a scalpel from the table near Graham's head. Will flinched. Lisa leaned forward and squalled into her gag. 

"Oh, don't be impatient, Cousin Lisa," Susana said. "Your turn will come." She enjoyed the look of horror and fear in her cousin's eyes. Well, the dear girl would have to learn _sometime_. Sometimes the dragon wins.

Susana leaned over Will Graham and studied his face intently. With her left hand, she pulled the wrinkled skin of his face taut so she could see the old scars. Slowly, her scalpel hand began to lower. 

Lisa tensed forward, held back by the handcuffs on her wrists and the arms on her shoulders. Her eyes burned futilely at her cousin, unshed tears welling up in them. Susana had gagged her, so that meant she didn't want to hear Lisa beg for Graham's life. If only she could talk—get her cousin to let her say just a few sentences – she might be able to convince her. Torturing an old man to death – that Lisa could not stomach. Not Graham. She let out another muffled sound. 

Susana looked over at her. "Oh, don't _cry_, Cousin Lisa. You're a big girl."

Lisa _mmmphed _again. Susana gave her a consternated look. 

"Do you have something you want to tell me?" Susana asked, sounding like a kindergarten teacher talking to a pupil.

Lisa nodded. 

"Now you know that if you scream, I'll cut off Graham's lips and feed them to you. Do we understand each other?" Susana asked in that same kindergarten-teacher voice. 

Lisa nodded again. 

"All right, then." Susana approached her cousin and squatted. She pulled the duct tape away from Lisa's mouth and cleared out the washcloth Luke had stuffed in it earlier. 

Lisa worked her jaw. When she spoke, her voice was tense and panicked, but her tone was low. She knew that begging wouldn't work, and she knew that Susana would resent her if she tried to cajole or manipulate. But perhaps a straight-up deal would work. 

"Susana," she said. "The profile we used to catch you had four major elements we were looking for. Let Graham go, and I'll tell you what they are." 

Susana chuckled. "And how would _that _be worth a thing? You'd lie." 

Lisa shook her head. "Keep me as a hostage, if you prefer. You could torture it out of me later if you want." she said breathlessly.

"Torture you?" Susana tilted her head, smiling wolfishly. "That sounds like a _fun_ idea. I like that." 

"He's an old man and he had nothing to do with catching you. Please. He's helping the FBI, that's all. He doesn't deserve to die."

Even as she said it she knew it was the wrong thing to say. Susana's eyes narrowed at her suddenly and her gloved hand tightened down on Lisa's jaw, forcing it open. She rammed the washcloth back in and slapped the tape back across Lisa's lips. 

"But according to your masters, _I _do," Susana said venomously. Lisa screamed into the terrycloth holding her tongue down flat. She lunged forward. The hands of the man behind her grabbed her and pulled her back. Lisa tried to twist her head around to look at him, but he twisted her head back around, strong hands on either side of her head.

Susana stalked back to the table and pulled off her gloves. She put on a fresh pair and took up her scalpel again. Her left hand snagged in Graham's bristly white hair. Will Graham clamped his eyes shut. Lisa strained forward until the cuffs dug into her wrists. Both Will and Lisa stared helplessly at the pointed silver tip of the scalpel descending slowly, light running off its point wickedly. It halted four inches or so from Will's right eye. 

Will Graham was not afraid to die. He did not want to die at the hands of this monster, but death itself did not scare him. What always had scared him was losing his mental abilities, of becoming senile and unable to think. He had never suffered the mental enfeeblement he feared. But now, with a younger Lecter's blade poised over his face, his sentience seemed to him a great curse. For just as before, he would feel and know every cut, every slash. He would be aware to the end. As she paused above him, he took a deep breath and steeled himself.

Susana Alvarez Lecter stopped and took a deep breath. This could not be done in the heat of anger. This was for her papa. And no other victim of Hannibal Lecter was still alive. This would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, never to be repeated. Sloppiness was not called for. 

The first cut was accurate and direct, a slash above Graham's right eyebrow. Susana had decided not to give him anesthetics – he hadn't had them first time around, either. His body tensed with greater force than she would have expected from such an old man. Blood welled immediately from the cut. Susana added another quarter-inch to the cut and was pleased with her work. Her cut had precisely mirrored her father's. 

Graham began to thrash under the tape as she continued. A rough triangle around the right eye, lined almost immediately in red. A careful line bisecting the face, beginning at the middle of the forehead. Down his face, skirting the nose, to a measured quarter-inch of the lip. She placed one hand on either side of the cut and pulled gently. Graham writhed and hissed. But she was able to do what she intended to, pull the skin of his face apart so that he had a strange, asymmetrical appearance. The circular scar on his cheek was harder to duplicate with the scalpel. It did not turn the same way as a linoleum knife. But Susana managed, and soon a half-dollar-sized circle appeared in Graham's cheek. It fell in as it had before, just a gobbet of flesh holding it on. She could look through the hole and see Graham's teeth and tongue working in pain. 

Next came another, shorter slash under the right eye, making him look like a bloody harlequin. She had to push the glasses out of the way to start it. Then, most of the way down the cheek. The blood from earlier incisions was getting in the way. She wiped it away and proceeded to her task with precision and care. 

The left ear had been repaired well, she thought. One could barely see the scar where the ear had been reconstructed. Some plastic surgeon had earned his money. Susana cut the top of the ear, a slightly upturned diagonal slash, and the top quarter of Graham's ear tumbled to the table. 

Susana stood over the suffering old man and nodded with approval, inordinately pleased. She had done it. Will Graham, mutilated by one Lecter fifty years ago, was now a perfect duplicate of what he had been, the mutilations carefully retraced by another Lecter. Now for the _coup de grace. _

Susana put the bloody scalpel down. For this, she would not use a scalpel. No, this mark she would do as he had done. She listened to Will's shuddery breathing and observed him for a moment. In the background, she barely registered Lisa sobbing. Will Graham met her eyes, hellishly aware and bright blue against the running crimson of his blood, and she stared back at him for a moment or two before proceeding. 

She flipped open the old man's sports jacket and let it lie on either side of him, like a butterfly's pinned wings. The oxford shirt underneath was clean and pressed. That pleased Susana. Her father had been right; they _were _just alike. Even until his death, Dr. Lecter had insisted on wearing dress shirts, preferably a tie. She appreciated seeing this again in Graham. 

The buttons of Graham's white broadcloth shirt were harder to pop off than she thought. The shirt was made well and the buttons double-sewn with strong thread. _Good taste in clothing_, Susana thought, blissfully unaware of how many years it had taken Molly Foster Graham to inculcate that habit in him. But it was well within her ability to break them once she had adjusted for their strength. The cotton T-shirt he wore underneath was much easier to rip. 

The raised scar on Will Graham's belly was long and wide. It snaked up from his left hipbone, curving across his stomach like a snake. It notched his rib cage on the right side, the end of the scar angled like a check mark. Susana's eyes closed, and the presence of her father was so palpable she expected him to be behind her, nodding approvingly. 

Susana lifted the blade she had chosen to do this work, the most important. It was not a medical instrument by any means. Will Graham grunted in pain, but his eyes widened in fear when he saw the hooked blade of the linoleum knife protruding from her closed fist. But he was weak from loss of blood and loss of years, and he could only strain against the tape fruitlessly. 

Lisa Starling watched this helplessly, anger, grief, and pain writ large across her face. She glared at her cousin hatefully as Susana hovered over Will's stomach, a cat playing with a mouse before killing it. Helpless tears welled in her eyes. This was nothing more than pure, unmitigated torture. Susana's eyes met hers for a moment. Anger and hate were pushed aside by astonishment at what Lisa saw: tears burned behind Susana's eyes, too. 

_Oh God. Oh God. To her, this is like the freaking Ark of the Covenant. There's no way she'll stop. I'm sorry, Will, I'm so sorry. _

But Lisa could not turn her eyes away from the sight before her as Susana lowered the linoleum knife and pressed the curved blade against Will's scrawny hip. She flinched when she heard Will let out what might have been a pained scream from between clenched teeth. DeGraff had been bad enough, but Will was her _friend. _Blood welled from the wound. 

It took far longer for Susana Alvarez Lecter to open Will Graham's stomach than it had for Hannibal Lecter. The scar was raised and wide, and it did not cut easily. Susana was determined not to deviate from it at all. Slowly, surely, however, the blade traced its predestined path across Will's stomach. It bled much more heavily than the facial wounds Susana had inflicted on him, and soon the carpet under the table was stained with crimson. 

The blade was difficult to maneuver as it cut through flesh and gristle, and getting the notch on the ribcage right was even more difficult. The blade kept grabbing at the rib below the skin. But Susana's efforts were finally rewarded. Will Graham lay on the table, his face carved up and his stomach slashed open. His viscera were visible. As he had half a century before, he lay back and groaned in pain. Susana took a moment to observe her work before carefully taping Will's mouth with duct tape. She smiled brightly, realizing that there was no closer to her father's work she could get beyond this. Her only regret was that she almost certainly knew she would never get another chance like this. It was easy to ignore her cousin's hateful glare: besides, Lisa would learn what was waiting for her. 

Suddenly, there was a pounding on the front door. Susana's head jolted around. 

"Open up! This is the FBI! Open the door, please." 

Susana and Luke traded glances. She stepped deliberately around her cousin and whispered into his ear. 

"I'll handle it," she hissed. "Can you get her ready?" 

Luke Taylor nodded. "Bedroom?" 

Susana nodded. "I still have…a few things I need to do to him, too." 

Luke shrugged. 

"And you know what you need to do to get started, right?" she told him.

He nodded again. 

Lisa Starling was too overwrought with grief and horror to really notice. She hoped desultorily that it was Miehns at the door, preferably with the entire HRT behind her. How she could have ever felt sorry for her cousin in jail was beyond her now. Susana had been right: she _did _deserve to die, after this. 

But then Luke grabbed the rung of the chair back and was dragging it easily over the carpeted hallway. Lisa started and tried to look around at him. Her arms flexed against the handcuffs. But all she could do was watch what was behind her as Luke dragged her backwards into the bedroom. 

She saw the body of the old woman sprawled in a corner, the body of the door guard stacked neatly next to it, like cordwood. She couldn't help but tense. Two more notches on Susana's belt. _Means to an end murders, _the profiler in her decided. The end had been Graham. What the hell was this guy doing with her anyway? 

_I swear to God, Susana, you'd better kill me now or I'll be there when they get you, I'll be there when they try you, and I'll be there when they strap you down in Terre Haute. _

And then Luke Taylor was bending down behind her, his lips against her ear, breath unpleasant against her skin: 

"Do you believe in God, Agent Starling?" 


	16. At Their Mercy

_Please God don't let me be too late. _

Those thoughts ran through the brain of Agent Laura Miehns, commander of the HRT and current bodyguard of Lisa Starling, as she pulled into the parking lot of the complex. She'd known this was where Lisa had to be headed, even though she hadn't answered her phone. The real question was why. Had Graham simply had a heart attack or something? Or was it something darker? Something five foot four and responsible for the deaths of most of the HRT? 

It seemed somehow darkly proper that it was the second. Susana was here. She could sense the killer's mocking presence. Laura determined to bring her down. She already owed for the HRT personnel she had killed. If Susana Alvarez laid a finger on Lisa Starling's head while she was Laura's responsibility….

As Lisa had fifteen minutes earlier, Agent Miehns sprinted into the lobby and ran for the stairwell door. A few people glanced at her as she went, but she paid them no heed. The pistol was heavy and comforting in her hand as she charged up the stairs, gun before her. At the metal door with a large 4 painted on it, she grabbed the knob, turned, and pointed her weapon to and fro down the hallway. 

Graham's door was shut, but not locked. Laura ran inside. It would contaminate the crime scene, but there were more important things. Like Lisa and Graham's lives. No one in the living room. She checked the kitchen. Same deal. The bathroom and the bedroom were empty. Where the hell did they go? The train had only delayed her by five minutes, seven tops. 

Laura Miehns was HRT, not Behavioral Sciences, and she knew a lot about escaping perps. It would be possible for Susana Alvarez Lecter to have fled the scene in five minutes, her and the helper that Lisa and Graham had theorized that she had. But neither Lisa nor Graham was around, which meant that Susana and her accomplice probably had them too. There was no way at all that two people could get two hostages, one of them 90, down four flights of stairs in five minutes. 

Therefore, they were probably still around. She decided to see if any of the old people living here had seen or heard anything. One never knew. She ran up to the next door and banged on it. 

"Open up! This is the FBI! Open the door, please." 

She paused for a moment and waited, her ear cocked. The thick steel door blocked all sound. She did not hear anything on the other side. She did not hear Susana Alvarez Lecter's hushed conversation with Luke, nor did she hear Lisa being dragged to the back bedroom. 

Susana waited for several moments before answering. When she did, her voice was high and cracked. It was a fairly good imitation of an old woman's voice. If the cop on the other side of the door knew Mrs. Moore's voice, she was sunk. Susana thought the odds were pretty good that she would not, though. 

"Just a moment, dearie," Susana said. "I'm coming. I can't move as fast as I used to." Her mind spun, trying to figure out what to do next. She had a gun in her bag, but she knew she couldn't shoot through the steel door. Besides, the gunfire would get _one _of these old coots to call the cops, if the one outside hadn't called them already. She didn't need that much time to deal with Lisa – it was a pretty simple thing she had planned. 

"Ma'am, I need to talk to you. I'm with the FBI. My name is Laura Miehns." 

"Ooooh, is it now?" Susana asked, meaning to delay. "I'm coming, I'm coming." She paused for a moment or two, so it would seem like it had been an afterthought. 

"Are you here about the awful ruckus next door?" Susana queried in her old-lady voice.

On the other side of the door, Laura Miehns clenched her fists. _Thank God, _she thought.

"Yes, ma'am, I am. Did you see anything or hear anything?" 

"Oh yes," Susana said, taking another step towards the door. She wanted the agent to think she was an old woman hobbling towards the door. What she would do when she got there was another story; she hadn't decided yet. She pulled her gun and checked it – locked and cocked. 

"What can you tell me about it?" Miehns asked. 

"Weeeelll," Susana dithered. "I saw them drive up outside. They had a bright red van, you know, and it was blaring music. That loud rock music that kids listen to these days, you know. I could hear it from up here! I told that nice Mr. Graham from next door, you know, he used to work for the FBI years and years ago. Do you know him?" 

_Great, _Laura Miehns thought on the other side of the door, _just what I need. An old woman who wants to talk. _

"Yes, I do, ma'am," she said. "Can you open the door, please?" 

The old woman sounded irked. "I'm _coming. _When you get to be my age you'll see yourself. I use a walker, you know. Anyway, this red van drove up and two people got out. And I just thought it was so awfully _rude _to be playing their music that loud. And a man and a woman got out and came in the building, you know. And then I didn't think anything more about it, I just sat down to watch TV and have a nice cup of tea. Do you like tea, dear?" 

"Yes, ma'am, tea's great. Can you go on about what you saw?" 

"All right, dearie. I heard people come upstairs and knock on Mr. Graham's door, maybe about ten minutes later. My TV show was already on, but they were loud in the hall and I could hear them. It gets so _echoey _out in the hall and people don't realize that we can hear you in here! And it's loud! And they opened up Mr. Graham's apartment and there was this big noise and I heard them fighting and I thought _Oh that poor Mr. Graham." _ Susana glanced over at poor Mr. Graham, bleeding not five feet away from him. His eyes were growing misty. 

"And they made a _tremendous _racket on the stairs and I wanted to call the police, but I can't move so fast anymore, I think I told you. So I went to the window and I watched them come out the door. And they got in the van, all three of them. And this blonde girl came up, I think she's been here before. She and Mr. Graham are doing something." Her tone indicated disapproval.

Agent Miehns did not care anymore about the old biddy coming to the door. This was too good. 

"Go on, ma'am," she urged, tensing her muscles. 

"And the woman got out of the van and they wrestled and then they got the blonde woman in the van. And they drove off! With that rock music playing. And I was about to call the police and then you showed up." 

_Must've been to cover the noise, _Laura Miehns thought. _Damn, I must've missed them by only a minute or so. Damn that train! _

"Did you happen to get the license number of the van, ma'am?" she panted eagerly. _Please. Be nosy. _

"Why, yes I did." She heard the old woman walk over to a table and rustle a paper. "AZT 3TC, it was. Virginia tags." 

Laura Miehns's first concern was Lisa, her charge. Finding her was paramount. So she might be forgiven the fact that she did not question the old woman further. 

"Thank you, ma'am," she said. "You've been very helpful." She headed for the ground floor again. As she went, she called in on her cell phone for an immediate APB on the red van. The message was swiftly communicated out to the local and state police departments. The dragnet to find and recover Lisa Starling and Will Graham was drawn. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter stepped back from the door with satisfaction. They'd be looking for the van, and they'd find it. Well, that was why it was rude to cut people off in traffic. She wondered if the police would arrest them or shoot them or what when they found it. She looked over at Will Graham bound to the table, bleeding his life away. She tilted her head at him and grinned. Still using the old-lady voice, she spoke. 

"Well now, there won't be any cavalry for the nice Mr. Graham, now will there be dearie?" Then, in her own voice, she continued. "But I only have one more thing to do to you, Mr. Graham. Then it's Lisa's turn." 

Will let out an agonized groan. 

…

Lisa Starling tensed. The man in back of her was puttering around, doing something. She could hear him pick up a plastic vial. Then a needle stung her arm. She winced. She didn't this guy at all. There was something disturbing about him. It was hard to pick up on, but she could pick up an unmistakable psychic scent of wrongness from him. 

Of course, it could just be that she was helpless around him in a bedroom, and the only thing that might save her was her own serial-killer cousin. 

"So you're the one who caught Susana," he said easily. "Put her in prison. In irons. How could you do that to her?" 

Lisa could not reply for the washcloth stuffed in her mouth. So she merely thought, _Because she's a cold-blooded murderer. _

"I suppose I should thank you, though. You were merely the instrument of God. That's something I understand, Agent Starling. Susana had to be imprisoned so that she could meet me, and so that she could be freed. Many people come to God in prison, you know. Susana hasn't professed faith yet, but she will. I know she will." 

A bizarre feeling began to spread throughout Lisa's body. Her muscles were slowly turning to water, relaxing involuntarily. It started in her arm, where she had received the shot, and began to spread out. She tried to concentrate on her right hand. It was still there; her nerves worked perfectly well. She could feel the wooden back of the chair. But when she commanded her fingers to move, they refused. 

Luke bent her forward as easily as a rag doll and removed the cuffs. The muscles of her stomach slackened too, refusing to hold her up. But she was as conscious and aware as ever, and the first tricklings of real fear began to invade Lisa's mind. She knew that she should try to fight. Once Susana got in here, God only knew what would happen to her. But her body simply would not respond. It was frightening. More than frightening, it was terrifying. 

Luke pulled the tape from her lips and yanked out the washcloth. The taste of his fingers was unpleasant. By now, the spreading paralysis had slipped up Lisa's neck to the throat. She willed her jaw to close on his fingers with all her might. It remained slack and loose. 

_Oh good Christ what did they do to me? _

He lifted her to the bed and laid her on it carefully, tipping her head back and opening her jaw. He looked dubiously at her, and through her fear she thought he was not familiar with what he was doing. She was completely paralyzed, her body refusing to respond to any command her panicked mind sent. But she was awake and aware, and she could feel the sheets of Mrs. Moore's bed under her skin. A mind trapped in a useless body. Even her eyes refused to focus in on Luke: her image of him was slightly blurred. She memorized what she could: _dishwater blonde hair, can't make out eye color, about six feet, maybe a hundred and seventy, a hundred and eighty, very strong…. _

He turned away and rummaged for something. It was then that Lisa made a horrible discovery about what her body would no longer do. It wouldn't breathe. Her lungs, which had always drawn breath for most of her life without any conscious thought by her, refused to move. She lay completely motionless on the bed. All of her will was focused on forcing her diaphragm to move, to draw in air, but it would not. The screaming of her brain to move the muscle was simply ignored. 

_Oh God. OhGodOhGodOhGod. I'm going to die. _

Then Luke turned around, something in his hand. As he approached her, she was able to see what it was. A plastic bulb attached to a mask. He placed the mask over Lisa's mouth and nose and squeezed the bulb. Air rushed through the mask and inflated her lungs. Lisa Starling, who was a regular watcher of TV medical dramas, realized that she was being bagged. 

"Are you thinking of your immortal soul?" Luke asked above her. "Are you willing to die for your faith?" 

At first she didn't understand the question and couldn't have answered anyway. Her mind whirled in panic. She was completely paralyzed, couldn't breathe, and her life was in the hands of a serial killer. His eyes glowed down at her. There was something much more frightening than even her cousin's there. For the most part – Will Graham's murder aside – Susana was fairly rational. In Luke Taylor's pale blue eyes she saw something insane. More than his words, his eyes told her that he would kill her in a heartbeat and glory in it. But then two voices from the recent past spoke up in her mind. 

Will in the park, tapping the Toronto crime scene photos: _Look for the heretic, Starling. Look for someone murdering martyr-style. Find them, and you'll find Dr. Lecter._

Kelly McNeely, exhausted and bitter as Lisa got in one last question before she was taken back home: _I sent in some people from the jail ministry, but she wouldn't talk to them._

She talked to one of them, Lisa Starling thought. _She talked to you, didn't she? McNeely must've forgotten. You're her accomplice, and you're my DC torture killer, aren't you? But now I know you're part of the jail ministry at Alexandria Detention Center. Jeez, can't believe I didn't see it before, they probably let you go anywhere you want. They probably let you right up to her cell, hell, maybe right INTO her cell, where they let you talk in private. _

Fat lot of good it'll do me now.

Luke Taylor grinned ecstatically at the sinner below him. Sinner, that made sense. Susana did not want her martyred. Luke was trying to figure out if that was because she was Susana's only relative, or if it was a means of punishing Lisa, by letting her die a sinner and burn in the everlasting flames of hell. But perhaps Susana had come around and would martyr her cousin herself. Whatever she had planned, he looked forward to seeing it.

And _this_…this was so fitting. He would have to get her to teach him how to do this. Norcuron, she had told him. He did not know how to get drugs like this, but it had to be possible. She'd done it. And he needed to know how much. A martyr restrained like this was like martyrs of old. There were no more tedious tears and begging and all that. Lisa's face was slack and placid. The way the martyrs in the woodcuts had been. Accepting of her fate. Even better, he knew the brain behind that calm face was in full-out panic mode. She was awake, aware, and conscious. Susana would have to teach him how to use it. He had so many ideas. 

Experimentally, he stopped squeezing the bag that gave Lisa air. He let her hang for perhaps thirty seconds or so, grinning down at her as he did so. There was no sign of fear at all, not a single pleading word. She was a puppet with her strings cut. A plaything. Her punishment for her sins was to fall into his hands. Playfully, Luke squeezed the bag several times in rapid succession, making Lisa pant.

Power, he thought. He had complete power over her, at least for the time being. It was absolutely dizzying. Anything he wanted to do to her, he could. Anything at all. And his mind whirled with ideas. Susana would probably indulge herself tormenting Graham after she was done with the FBI agent at the door. Luke wondered if she would simply shoot her or what. But he had time for mischief of his own. 

He leaned over her and studied her face intently. It was not so different from Susana's, he thought. The hair and eyes were different, but the planes of her face were not that dissimilar. As he studied his plaything, he tried to envision her with reddish-brown hair and maroon eyes. High cheekbones, delicate features. He wondered how she ever made it as an FBI agent, if people took her seriously. Then again, he amended, Susana had those same delicate features, and just _look _at the work she had done. Those martyrs up in Toronto. Such beautiful work. 

He lifted the mask away from her face and studied the blank blue orbs below him. He supposed she was wondering what he was doing. Her face gave away nothing. No indication at all that there was anyone home in those eyes. He wondered if this would be boring, since there was no way for the brain underneath to communicate its despair and horror. Then, he hovered his face barely a half inch over hers.

Slowly, his tongue extended out from his mouth. It passed Lisa's lips and touched her teeth, probing at them. He slapped his tongue against hers, enjoying the sheer ability to do anything he wanted at all to her. She remained slack and motionless. He lifted his head, drawing the tip of his tongue up the roof of her mouth at he went. No reaction at all. He laughed in spite of himself and debated doing it again. 

Lisa Starling was unable to express her disgust as the serial killer above her slid his tongue in her mouth. Her ability to vomit, as well as her ability to move any other muscle, was offline. Her mind screamed as his tongue probed the inside of her mouth. Was this what Susana had in mind for her? To be so completely helpless at the hands of this thing keeping her alive? Was he going to want anything…else? 

She showed no outward reaction. The Norcuron still held her firmly in its grip. Mentally, she narrowed her eyes at him and thought _Someday, I will kill you slowly for that. _She tried not to think about what might happen to her _now_ to stop this lovely plan. 

He simply retreated back to his normal stance over her and continued squeezing the bag. Susana strolled in a moment later and glanced over Lisa calmly. Upon seeing her, Lisa Starling felt an emotion she never would have before connected with Susana Alvarez Lecter: gratitude. Susana laid down some items on Mrs. Moore's nightstand, then laid down a piece of paper next to Lisa. Turning her head to look at it wasn't an option. How odd it seemed: the very idea of motion was an impossibility for her. Susana jabbed a hypodermic needle into the side of Lisa's face and injected a cool liquid. Then another on the other side. Lisa blanched and wondered what her cousin had just given her. 

Working calmly, humming something under her breath, Susana Alvarez Lecter clipped something to Lisa's earlobe. She leaned a small electronic device by Lisa's head, so that she could easily see it. Lisa could hear a repeated beep coming from the device. Susana then took a surgical marker and carefully drew a few lines on Lisa's face. She studied the paper, then Lisa's face again. 

"How's the patient?" Susana asked calmly. 

"She's fine," Luke assured her. 

"Good. Let me scrub, and I'll be right in." 

__

No Susana don't leave me with this guy! Lisa Starling thought. She heard water running in the bathroom for several minutes. Above her, Luke squeezed the bag that kept her alive. He seemed to have satisfied himself. Or perhaps he didn't want Susana to see. Lisa deemed that more likely. 

Susana came back, gloved and masked. Lisa would've flinched if flinching was a remote possibility for her. 

__

She's going to do me like Graham. She won't kill me, but she might scar me. 

"Well, hello, Lisa," Susana said. "You've already been administered anesthetics and paralytics, as you probably noticed. Norcuron, generic name vecuronium. Complete paralysis, as you noticed. But don't worry…it'll wear off soon." 

She bent her head down to whatever piece of paper she had placed by Lisa's head. Lisa would have given a great deal to know what was on the paper. Susana was concentrating on it with a great deal of effort. 

"This is awfully different from the last time we met, Lisa," Susana said chattily. "Well, you could move then, for one thing. Also, you were arresting me…putting me in jail." 

Her face quirked just a bit. The beeping sound of the device clipped to Lisa's ear quickened as her heart began to pound. Will had been right. Prison had changed Susana. 

"The jail was a very trying experience for me," Susana said matter-of-factly. She raised her right hand in the air. Something silver gleamed from it. "I suppose if you wanted to make me miserable, Lisa, you found the way." 

Lisa Starling lay helplessly, unable to express herself except through the beeping of the device attached to her ear. She could neither beg nor move. She could not even breathe herself. She was sorry that she would end up as Susana's sixth profiler victim. She was sorry for Will. She couldn't help but wonder if it might have been better if she had never tracked down Susana in the first place. It had brought her glory, but now an old man was dead at Susana's hands, and she was next. In a way, it was crazily appropriate – the two profilers who caught Dr. Lecter going down together. 

"You might say prison scarred me, Lisa," Susana Alvarez Lecter said thinly. 

The gleaming scalpel descended. 


	17. Escape Art

_Author's note: OK, so wait a minute...vivisecting an old man is OK, but Lisa getting the tongue gets universal disgust? _

It was done, finally. It hadn't taken as long as Susana had allowed. After all, what she had to work with was pretty good raw material. She'd sewn Lisa up and bandaged the wounds. There still was the stink of ammonia in the air, but all she could do about that was open the window. But overall, Susana was pleased. 

The cart that Luke had used as part of his aide disguise had little real medical equipment on it, but there was something Susana planned to use. She slid it out now. It was a large plastic case. It was quite heavy, and the bed under Lisa settled when Susana put it next to her. Lisa was still motionless. The drug still held her in its grip.

She attached a plastic hose to the tube she had inserted in Lisa's throat and twiddled with the dials. A mechanical hiss came from the case. Susana checked the dials. Lisa was getting plenty of air. The pump forced air into her throat and made her chest rise mechanically. Susana noted this with a satisfied look and nodded once absently. She glanced over at Luke, who was buttoning up the uniform of the dead HRT guard. He was amused that the guard's last name stenciled on the BDU jacket was the same as his own. 

"Help me get her clothes off," Susana said. 

From her mute, helpless position on the bed, Lisa Starling did not care at all for the sound of that. Her face was swathed in bandages. She had no idea what Susana had done to her, but it hadn't hurt. The anesthestics had seen to that. But now her face was mummified, her eyes covered. 

_Uh oh…no, Susana, don't. You've never done anything like this before. Please. _

Susana reached down and pulled off Lisa's shoes and socks. She slipped her own feet into the shoes experimentally. They were a bit loose, but not too bad. Then she unbuttoned Lisa's pants and pulled them neatly off her legs. For his part, Luke began to unbutton Lisa's blouse. The feel of his hands on her body made her heart begin to pound with fear. The machine attached to her ear beeped faster in unison with it. 

Helplessly, she felt Luke pull one arm free from its sleeve, then the other. She lay in her underwear atop the bed. She couldn't tell if either of them were watching. She felt unpleasantly like a piece of meat on the butcher's slab, a metaphor which was uncomfortably close to home. 

Then a finger touched her leg just above the knee and ran up her thigh. Her flesh pimpled into goosebumps. It was him, she could tell. Susana was down by her feet. Her pulse raced and she could feel her mouth go dry. 

_Oh God Susana, don't let him do this to me. I don't know what you did to my face, but isn't that enough? Christ Almighty, are you **that **angry at me for catching you? _

If there was a God, He heard her. 

"Yes, it's a leg," she heard Susana say in a prim and displeased tone. "We have them too, you know. Now keep an eye on the window while I get changed and get ready." 

Had weeping with gratitude been a possibility, Lisa would have done it when she heard Luke's retreating footsteps. She could hear the rustle of cloth. Then the rasp of the bedsheet being pulled up to cover her. _Oh thank you God. _

A sharp, metallic _bang _startled her. A gunshot? No, too quiet. But something. Then an indescribably wet, weird sound that made her want to shiver. 

Susana was getting ready. 

…

Laura Miehns swallowed. 

They'd found the van, not far from the nursing home. The local PD had them now, pulled over, wondering what they were stopped for. The HRT had picked her up and was driving her there to make an identification. The local boys had said there were only two people in the car, and Laura had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. If Susana Alvarez Lecter had already dumped Lisa's body, she would regret it. 

There it was, up the street, a cruiser parked behind it with its lights going. Laura got out of the Crown Vic as the agent behind the wheel pulled up behind the local cruiser. She waved. 

"Laura Miehns, FBI," she said. "I'm the one who put the APB out on this car." 

The local police officer nodded. "Well, they're not armed," he said calmly. That surprised Agent Miehns. Susana Alvarez Lecter would know better than to go unarmed; her freedom depending on it. "Their ID checks out, too." That was hardly a surprise: Susana put the same faith in fake ID's that her father had. 

She glanced in the driver's side window. A tall blonde man occupied the minivan's driver's seat. Next to him sat a red-haired woman who gave the agent a nervous look. 

"Look, I don't know what we've done," the man said, "but is this going to take much longer? We have to pick up our babysitter." 

Laura Miehns studied the man's face for a moment. That could tell her nothing. She looked into the woman's eyes for longer. It didn't look like Susana at all. But it might be a disguise. She was approximately the right height and weight. 

"Ma'am," Agent Miehns asked, "would you step out of the car, please?" 

The woman looked surprised. "Have I done something wrong? Can _someone _tell me what is going on here?" 

"It's in regard to a kidnapping, ma'am," Laura replied. "Could you please step out of the car?" 

The woman complied. Agent Miehns walked around to the other side to size up the woman. Standing, she was able to notice it right off. The woman was at least five foot seven. Her prey was five foot four. She asked the woman for ID and scanned it perfunctorily. Then she turned to the deputy. 

"Turns out to have been a false alarm," she said politely to the policeman. "Someone deliberately gave us a false license plate. Send 'em on their way."

As she headed back to her car, the smile ran from her face. She got in the passenger side and looked at her driver. Her cheeks burned as she realized what had just happened. 

"Get us back to Will Graham's place, _now_," she said. 

The drive was quick, and made quicker by the red light mounted on the dashboard. Laura Miehns ran up the four flights of stairs after instructing her driver to call for backup and ambulances. Somehow, whenever Susana Alvarez was concerned, ambulances were necessary. In the fourth-floor hall, she drew her weapon and prepared herself. 

The door yielded on the first kick. It hadn't even been dead-bolted. For a moment, Laura Miehns was wary. A trap, perhaps? Susana had done that before. 

Then she saw Will Graham moaning on the table and Lisa Starling still and silent on the floor. She advanced forward and checked the scene. Satisfied that no one was going to pop out and shoot at her, she examined the situation quickly. It was grisly. 

Will Graham's face was a bloody mess. He was breathing, but barely. Blood had begun to pool on his face from the several slashes Susana had carved in it. His stomach was carved open like a pumpkin, reminding Laura Miehns of the animals hit by cars she had tried to save. But he squeezed her hand when she took his, and his pulse was there. Weak and thready, but there. 

"Hang on, Mr. Graham," she whispered. "Help's on the way." 

Lisa was worse. Above the collar of her blouse simply no longer resembled a face. One eye was popped out of its socket, lying half onthe socket and half on her forehead. The other eye simply appeared to no longer exist. Blood was everywhere, along with ragged tissue. It appeared that Lisa Starling's very face had been vivisected and shorn off her skull. But from the bloody hole that had replaced Lisa's mouth, breath issued in a wheezing gasp. She was breathing on her own. 

"Aw _Jeez!" _Laura Miehns said, and squatted by her charge. Guilt and anger played a shadow war across her face. If only she had been a minute faster and not gotten caught by the goddam train. If only she'd demanded the old biddy open the door. If only Susana Alvarez had just gotten out of the goddam country when she could and not done this. 

"Lisa," she said urgently. "Lisa, it's Agent Miehns. You're gonna be all right. Can you hear me?" 

Lisa's hand squeezed her own in response. Agent Miehns winced a bit, surprised how strong the grip was. Lisa's nails dug into her hand. But even that was good. Strength was good. She continued talking to Lisa, trying to keep her up and going. 

"G…Graham," the word came from the ruin of Lisa Starling's face, a bloody bubble forming on her lips.

"He's alive. The ambulances are on route. Both of you are gonna make it. You want me to check on him?"

Lisa squeezed her hand once, then deliberately opened it. 

She checked on Graham. He seemed to be still alive, but in bad shape. Laura smiled down at him tightly. 

"C'mon, Mr. Graham," she said. "You're gonna make it. You know you are. You're in this for the long haul." 

Will didn't look like he would make it: he was beginning to tremble. But his lips curved into a bloody rictus of a smile. "I…I'm not in the long haul for much," he husked. 

She checked on Lisa again. Lisa seemed to be unchanged. As Laura Miehns spoke to her, she was staring at nothing, concentrating on trying to talk Lisa through this. Then her eyes focused, looking down the hall at the bedroom door. Something wasn't right about it. She cocked her head and looked at it further. 

There it was. The door was closed, but there was no knob on the outside. That wasn't right – she'd seen Graham's. Someone had knocked the doorknob off of Mrs. Moore's bedroom door. Laura Miehns's eyes narrowed. 

Carefully, she took out her cell phone and called into HRT again. The secretary helpfully got a radio link going, so she was able to communicate with everyone at once. They'd round up all the BSU people they were protecting. When she spoke, her tone was quiet and controlled. She did not want anyone to overhear her. 

"I'm in the apartment now…seems like they took over the one _next _to Graham's. The bedroom door is closed and the knob is knocked off. I think Sweet Susie is in the bedroom, possibly planning to go out the window. I want HRT in here now, with snipers, although if she tries to rappel out she'll be a sitting duck against the side of the building. Starling and Graham are stable, but they're hurt…where the hell are my ambulances? I want at least three snipers outside, somewhere safe where we're not going to hit any of the residents. We need to evacuate the building if we can. Well…wait. Get an extraction team in here, maybe we can take her down with a show of force." 

She thought for a moment about the _last _time that had been tried against Susana Alvarez and shuddered. Well, there wasn't anything she could blow up in the bedroom. Hopefully. 

"I want a door-banger team up here, plus people to back them up. Where the hell _are _you people?" she hissed. There were no sirens approaching. Was that because they wanted to be stealthy, or were they just not here yet? It was nerve-racking. 

Her hand fastened down on Lisa's. There was no answering squeeze. Quickly, she checked Lisa's pulse and was relieved to find it strong. In Lisa's state, unconsciousness might be a blessing. She hoped like hell they could save Starling's eyes. Staring into the ruin of Lisa Starling's face doubled her determination to put the cuffs on Susana Alvarez Lecter. Whether or not Susana would survive to be brought back to jail was something Laura Miehns would have to decide later. 

Finally, _finally, _there was a ruckus on the stairs and she could hear the squeak and rattle of gurneys. Several armed HRT agents ran in the room and secured the apartment, leaving only the bedroom door. One of them carried an extra MP5 and a radio which he gave to her. It made her feel much better. two squads of paramedics. One took Lisa, the other took Graham. As they carefully strapped Lisa Starling to the stretcher, her arms and legs began to flail. The ruin of her head rocked back and forth. 

"This one's seizing," the EMT guy said. 

"Get them out of here, _now,_" Laura Miehns ordered. She was torn. Part of her wanted to go with Lisa. Lisa was, after all, her responsibility. But there was also a very dangerous killer behind that door, and Laura Miehns was the only current member of the HRT who had ever dealt with Susana Alvarez and lived to tell the tale. Duty vs. duty, never an easy conflict. 

Lisa would be safe and she would check in with her later. Besides, the younger woman was almost assuredly going to be in surgery. With a lump in her throat, Laura Miehns decided to stay with her team. She wanted to see Susana's face. 

The EMT's did their job admirably: they knew they were in a danger zone. They did what all emergency medical technicians are supposed to do in a dangerous situation. They slid an airway down Lisa's throat, put a pressure bandage over the ruin of her face, and pulled their victim out of the line of fire. Graham's gurney rattled after it, seemingly in hot pursuit.

The team moved into position. Three with the heavy weight used to batter down doors in front of it, crouching low. The rest behind them. From the radio, Agent Miehns knew that the outside of the building was covered. If Susana tried to flee through the window, there would be at least three bullets in her by the time she hit the ground. More if Miehns authorized it. 

She glanced out a window and saw Lisa and Graham being loaded into ambulances parked outside. An HRT man hopped up into Lisa's ambulance. She squinted to see who it was. She buzzed in on the radio. Everyone was accounted for. 

Oh, wait…Taylor. Taylor, who she'd assigned to guard Graham. If he thought going to the hospital was going to get him out of trouble for letting all this happen, he had another thing coming. But Laura Miehns decided that kicking Agent Taylor's ass could wait until Susana was captured. First capture Sweet Susie, then check in on Lisa, and station herself at her door, then inform Agent Taylor that he would be looking at a career in pizza delivery or perhaps the Cops in Shops program. 

The ambulances departed, their lights and sirens wailing. Surprise was no longer an issue. The men and women of the HRT looked to their commander. Each in their position, each a cog in a well-oiled machine awaiting the word. 

"Go," Laura Miehns ordered. 

The weight coming down on the interior door splintered and shattered it almost as soon as it hit. With a groan, the door swung open drunkenly, as if to ask what it had done to deserve such force. The three agents stepped back, aimed their weapons, and let the entry squad take over with their cover available. Laura Miehns went in behind them. She cast her eyes around the room and gasped. 

Belinda Moore had been a fervent Catholic, and her bedroom sported a heavy wooden five-foot cross with a carved Jesus on it. Jesus was no longer visible. This was because there was a bound woman hanging from the cross covering Jesus's wooden body. Laura looked at the woman tied to the cross. She was naked except for a black bra and panties. Her face was heavily bandaged. At her feet, a man wrapped only in a sheet knelt as if to worship her. He was tied to a stool to keep him up. A simple examination revealed he was quite dead. It was hard to look at his face: like Lisa had been, his face was horribly mutilated. Purple traumatized flesh abounded everywhere. 

_What the hell? _ Laura Miehns thought. 

The woman's head rose slowly as she heard them enter. 

"FBI," Agent Miehns said. "You're safe. Identify yourself." 

The woman coughed. Her voice was dry and cracked. It seemed like a pained croak. She did not seem to know there was a faceless dead man kneeling at her feet or several live men with guns staring at her tied to the cross. "Miehns…it's me…Starling.. Agent ID…B504435213. Get me down…Susana…did something to my face." 

Laura Miehns stopped dead and froze. That was Starling's ID number, all right. But then…wait a minute…the ambulance…and hadn't Hannibal Lecter escaped in Memphis this way? She sat down hard on the floor as she realized what had just happened. 

"Get her down," she said dazedly. 

_She got me again._

…

The ambulance attendants were busy chatting back and forth. The patient was stable. The seizure had not recurred. Pulse and BP were good too. This one would live. But those facial wounds – they'd been able to see the one enucleated eye, but couldn't find the other one at all. The cop just sat in the front, near the driver, and kept out of the way. That was for the best. 

But they were relaxing as one of them was talking to the doctors coming in. 

"Yeah, this is a female, age ….mid-late twenties, maybe early thirties. Facial lacerations…heck, I've never seen stuff like this before. Some psycho really tore her up." 

The patient's hands slid out from under her waistband and undid the strap across her chest easily. Then the pressure bandage over her face, and finally the suffocating layer of Agent Taylor's skin off her own. Then, with no small pleasure, she pulled the tube out of her throat. Honestly. Who had taught him how to intubate patients? Roto-Rooter? 

The first EMT noticed she was awake and reached out. "Agent Starling, please don't do that," he said calmly. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter pulled her feet free of the strap across her calves. She looked at him and pulled the blonde wig off her head. She tossed it to him gently. She raised her bloody eyebrows at him. 

"Catch!" she said.

He caught the wig on pure reflex. It gave her enough time to slip her Harpy from the back of Lisa's slacks and sprint a step or two closer to him. Then the blade was up, ripping and slashing. His intestines spilled out in a ropy mass. That would make it much more inconvenient to walk in the back of the ambulance, but it would have to do. 

Then the second was easier, a quick savage shot across the throat. The ambulance suddenly slowed. Susana put her hands against the sides and braced herself. Carefully it pulled over into the breakdown lane. Then the body of the driver was being shoved back her, a wide slash from Luke's Harpy across his throat. She took it and carefully arranged it on the gurney. She poked her head up front and saw Luke Taylor seated behind the wheel, pulling the ambulance back into traffic. 

"Where to, ma'am?" he asked, grinning.

"The airport, if you please," she said. "We're doing this right, remember?"


	18. Discovery

                The hospital was busy and bustling.  Doctors and nurses ran to and fro.  Voices rose and blended into an unimaginable din.  The ER was barely controlled chaos.  Echoey voices spoke from the speakers overhead, asking doctors to call particular extensions.  

                The surgical floors were calmer.  Here, most of the patients were in bed.  Occasionally a nurse would appear in the halls.  In the surgical waiting lounge, Lisa Starling waited in a black vinyl chair.  She wore borrowed surgical greens.  Now, she thought, she knew how Kelly McNeely had felt.  Shame, anger and humiliation burned in her gut.  Her cousin had won this round hands down.  Laura Miehns sat next to her in the chair, equally silent.  Lisa supposed she was upset that she hadn't saved her.  Lisa did not hold her responsible.   

                Will was recovering from emergency surgery.  She had been seen down in the ER.  The ER doctor had been calm and apologetic.  _There's nothing I can do for your face, Agent Starling, not right now.  Anything I do would just make it worse. For now, just let it heal.   How __very comforting.  She'd gotten a referral to a plastic surgeon and new bandages to replace those Susana had wrapped around her head.  But she was okay, no matter what Susana had done to her.  Feeling under the bandages revealed that everything that was supposed to be there still was.  That was what mattered. _

                She was able to ignore her injuries for that reason.  She was up and running and functional.  Whatever her cousin had done to her could wait.  And part of her quailed to think of what might lie under those bandages.  Susana hadn't scrupled at leaving her with a crazy guy who stuck his tongue in her mouth; God only knew what she had decided to do to Lisa's face.  At Laura Miehns's insistence, they had admitted Lisa for overnight observation, just in case Susana had left them a surprise – internal injuries, perhaps.  Lisa had abandoned her room the minute she was installed there and headed for surgery to wait for Will.

                As soon as she had seen Will, she was heading straight to Alexandria to pull their files.  Maybe the jail ministry was part of a church, not the jail itself, but the jail would have names, at least.  Something to work off.  Thinking about putting a name to Susana's accomplice gave her something to think about, other than rage and shame.  

                All right.  The UNSUB was religious.  If he was the torture killer who had been dumping bodies around metro DC for the past few years, he was definitely a sadist.  Probably emotionally disturbed.  But he had to hold a job.  Lisa doubted the jail ministry was his main job: it was probably volunteer.  He'd dumped the bodies in some rural locations, some city locations, so he had to have a car.  That meant he had a job, because he had the means to maintain and operate a car.  The murders were pretty detailed.   He wasn't sloppy.  He'd also evaded detection this far.  That suggested something professional, something where he'd also have the time to volunteer.  Something better than unskilled labor, at least.

                His job wouldn't be something like sales, either.  This boy was capable of appearing normal, but internally, he was pretty messed up.  He would prefer a job that didn't deal with people.  He'd be somewhere in the back office.  Somewhere where he could dream his awful dreams, select his next victim….

                No, wait.  From what she could recall of the victims there wasn't any connection.  He was nonpreferential, a spider waiting for whatever fly flew into his web.  She resolved to get the file as soon as she got back to Quantico.  Susana had taken Graham away from her – perhaps forever – so she would take Susana's accomplice away from _her.  _

                A doctor walked up to them, interrupting her reverie.  

                "Hi," he smiled.  "You're here for Will Graham?"  Thankfully, he ignored the bandages swathing her face.   

                Lisa's head snapped up.  "Yes," she said instantly.  "Is he awake?" 

                The doctor nodded.  

                "What's his condition?" Lisa demanded. 

                The doctor adopted a regretful mien.  "Mr. Graham's condition…is not good," he said after some thought.  "He coded twice on the table.  It's touch and go.   We've done everything we can for him.  You can see him now…we're not sure if he's going to survive much longer."  

                Lisa Starling pressed her lips together and rose.  Behind her, Laura Miehns followed at a respectful distance.  She was alert, though – Susana Alvarez knew hospitals and might try attacking again.  It was her turf.  But Lisa was here for Will, so she would let her see him.  And probably say goodbye.  

                So they followed the doctor through the hall to a small, private room.  Will Graham lay on the bed, looking impossibly frail and old in the hospital johnny.  He seemed to have aged ten more years since the afternoon.  Lisa clamped her eyes shut against the sting of tears at seeing him.   They stung the incisions made in her face, but she couldn't help it.   Will saw it and smiled gently.  

                "Hello, Lisa," he said in a faint, papery whisper.  "Well…I guess this is it for me." 

                Lisa shook her head.  "You're going to live, Will.  You'll see this through to the end." 

                Will Graham smiled again.  "Lisa…this _is the end for me.  It's all right.  Don't cry."  _

                "No," Lisa said, and not a soul in the room knew what she was refusing. 

                Will looked up at the ceiling and a look almost like grace came over his face.  "I mean it," he whispered hoarsely.  "That's it for me.  And it's all right.  I've had as good a life as any man could hope for.  It's not the same for you, Lisa, you're young.  Me, I'm ready to go."  He met Lisa's eyes again.  "I'll be with my Molly," he said almost thoughtfully.  His eyes were alive as they touched Lisa's.  In pain and thinking of the past, perhaps of those things left unsaid, but alive and aware.  

                "It's going to be all right, Will," Lisa said softly.  Will sighed wistfully.  It was her nature to comfort the old man to the last, he thought.  But she didn't understand.  

                "Course it is, Lisa, but not how you think.  If she had to get someone," Will Graham said, "better it be me." 

                "I wish they hadn't asked you out here," Lisa said futilely, like a small child.  "She'd have left you alone." 

                Will Graham's gnarled hand reached out and touched Lisa's chin in a paternal gesture.  His smile was sad and kind.  It caused a fresh burst of tears from Lisa.  

                "Lisa, don't think like that," he said.  "I gotta go sometime.  And I volunteered to come.  I…," his eyes closed in pain for a moment and he paused.  "I was just sitting around, waiting to die."  His chest rose and heaved as he tried to suck in air.  

                "Lisa," he said, "there's those who come before, there are those who are there with you…and then there are those who come after.   I was old, Lisa, I'd been old for years.  Felt like the world had moved beyond me.  Dr. Lecter was gone for years, now we know he's dead.  Crawford died.  Molly passed on twenty years ago.  I was just an old man waiting to die myself.  I had a longer ticket than most, that's all."

                Lisa Starling did not say a word.  It seemed somehow very wrong to cut the old man off.  He didn't have much more time left, and this was something he wanted to say.   

                "But then…then Black Wednesday happened.  And Behavioral Sciences needed me.  And for just a little bit at the end, I got to be…well, part of the team.  I wish it hadn't happened, but it did, and I got to help out. Real help, really making a difference, not just humoring an old man.  I got to be…one of those who come after."  His old, blocky hand tightened on her smaller, smooth one.  

                "You did, Will," she whispered back.  Her throat had closed down too tight to allow anything else.  "You saw the martyr murders.  I didn't.  And I know who he is, Will.  I can get him.  Just like you said…get the heretic.  And he'll lead us to Dr. Lecter."  

                Will nodded.  He seemed pleased, smiling at her like a proud grandfather.    

                 "Least I could do," he pronounced hoarsely, "for the profiler who caught Dr. Lecter."  

                An expression of pain crossed his face then, and the EKG attached to his chest began to bray a loud alarm.  His hand tightened on Lisa's.  The room changed from peace to chaos then.  It seemed to Lisa Starling that several people instantly materialized in the room. Agent Miehns shooed her out into the hall.  Helplessly, she stood in the doorway, watching urgently. White coats and scrubs milled around the old man.  They spoke calmly but urgently, in an argot Lisa Starling could not comprehend – _V-fib, looks like an MI, he's flatlining… charge to 50…clear!  _

                The medical team applied the electrodes to Will Graham's chest.  His body jumped as the current crackled across his body.  The alarms continued to sound, the chaos continued to work.  They injected drugs into him.   They pounded on his chest.   And then, as quickly as the controlled chaos had started, it stopped.  They stood away from the bed as if obeying an unknown signal.  One of them had a look of minor disgust on his face, as if losing a video game.

                "Call it," he told another. 

                "Time of death….ten sixteen p.m."  He sighed.  It had been no more than ten minutes since Will Graham had last spoken.  The bald doctor came out into the hallway and eyed Lisa Starling, assuming her to be family.  

                "I'm sorry," he said. "We did everything we could, but we weren't able to resuscitate him."  He sighed.  

                Lisa Starling nodded silently, feeling tears sting her eyes.  When Laura Miehns took her arm and gently steered her back to her own room, she didn't protest.  She sat on the bed, staring into space blankly.  Her arms were clasped around her knees and her eyes were blank.  In that, she was not so dissimilar from how Susana had sat in her cell a month ago after the news of the death of her mother.  

                "I'm sorry, Starling," Laura Miehns said softly.   She paused for a moment, thinking about whether or not she should speak.  

                "Starling, did you want any files brought over from Quantico while you wait?" she asked.  

                Lisa's first idea was to say no.  No, she simply wanted to stare at the wall and grieve.  But it would be a more fitting memorial to Will to track down Susana's accomplice.  She sighed.  

                "Yes," she said.  "I want my DC torture killer file…it should be on my desk.  I want Susana's file too, just in case.  And also I want Alexandria Detention Center's records on their jail ministry.  I don't know how they track them, so get everything you can.  But if we know who was on Susana's cellblock the night of her escape, or whom they sent to talk to her, that's our man.  Find out if they have photographs on record or fingerprints or what.  Anything we can get."  

                Laura nodded calmly and called in the request to the HRT.  The basement corridors of Quantico were under extremely tight security.  The agent on the other end agreed to get the files that Lisa wanted and arranged for someone to be dispatched to Alexandria to get the paperwork she sought.  

                The paperwork arrived quicker than the doctor did.  That surprised Lisa.  It took barely half an hour for an agent from HRT to show up with two manila folders and a computer printout.  Lisa had already seen the other two files, and so she was most interested in the printout from Alexandria.  She was miffed to discover they had no photographs or fingerprints on file.  But there were names, and names would be good enough.  Names, birthdates, and home addresses.  Not bad.  She could work with this. 

                Susana's accomplice was male.  That ruled out the women on the list.  She believed the accomplice to be close to her own age – perhaps a bit younger.  It struck her as appropriate that Susana would prefer a younger man she could manipulate.  Then again, Susana hadn't really been in a position to choose.  She would have had to take whoever offered to help her.  She hesitated over a fifty-year-old and decided to cross him off the list.  The man who had stuck his tongue in her mouth had been younger than that.  She shivered at the memory and forced herself to keep on going. 

                That narrowed it down to ten names.  Three had been to the prison that day.  Feeling the satisfaction of a hunter closing in on her prey, she circled the names and called over Laura Miehns.  

                "One of these three is Susana's accomplice," she said, and pointed to them.  "If we bring them in for questioning, we'll find our way to Susana." 

                Miehns nodded and grinned, wanting to get in on the hunt herself.  "Read me off the names?" she asked.

"Charles Pearson…, John Stapleton…., or Luke Taylor." 

A doctor stuck his head in the room and smiled nonchalantly.  "Hi," he said calmly.  "I'm Dr. Lindbergh.  I was called over to have a look at your face."  

Lisa shrugged and put her files on the bedside table.  "All right," she said.  The thought of her face made her tremble.  But the guy had to be on the level – the door guard outside would not have let him in otherwise.  So she sat passively and let him remove the bandages again.  He studied her face with some degree of calmness. 

"Hmmm," he said thoughtfully.  "Now, no one in the hospital did this?" 

Lisa shook her head.  "The…the perpetrator did," she said simply. 

"Well, Agent Starling, here's the deal.  Your wounds are _already stitched up.  Quite neatly, I might add.  I couldn't have done any better myself.  I can cut them if you want, but the thing is, your skin has already been cut once.  If I do, then your skin might scar, and that's your face, so we want to avoid that.  Better to let it heal, then see what we're looking at." _

Lisa took some time to digest that.  Finally, she asked, "Is it bad?" 

"No," the doctor said with some relief.  "A little swelling, but not bad.  Would you like to see?" 

"Yes," Lisa said flatly.  The doctor handed her a small hand mirror.  It trembled in her hand as she raised it to her face.  She took a deep breath and looked into the mirror.  

The results surprised her.  There was little visible damage to her face.  Her eyes had changed.  There were sutures in the corners of her eyes, and also on her cheeks.  She touched her cheek experimentally:  there was something on her cheekbones making them slightly more prominent.  As he had said, there was some redness and some swelling, but nothing too bad.  There was bruising around the eyes, but that did not concern her.  It would fade off.  

   The biggest change was the hair.  Instead of the light blonde color that had been there all her life, her hair was a rich reddish brown.  She remembered the stink of ammonia and the feeling of Susana massaging something wet and gluey into her hair.  At the time, she'd thought it was some type of acid gel, perhaps a depilatory, something that would leave her scalp bald and horribly scarred.  Instead, her murderous cousin had simply given her a dye job.  In some ways it was almost laughable.

"She made you look like her," Miehns said softly.  

Lisa stared into the mirror.  Starling women had always had a strong resemblance.  Susana's resemblance to her mother was clear enough.   Even the planes of her old face were similar to her first cousin and first cousin once removed.  Susana's knife had simply enhanced this resemblance.  Then it hit her.  The face that had haunted her ever since her career began was now hers.  It was frightening in its own way:  she wore a face that she connected with failure, with betrayal.  The face she had sworn to overcome in the FBI's eyes.

"No," she said and grabbed Susana's file.  When she spoke, her tone was calm and nonchalant, which seemed odd given her words.  "No, she didn't make me look like her.  My eyes are still blue.  She wouldn't have missed that.   She'd have gone after my eyeballs with a tattoo gun if that was what she wanted.  Don't you see?" 

She slipped the picture from Susana's file and held it up.  It was unmistakable then, swelling or no.  Laura Miehns sighed as she realized Lisa was correct. 

"She made me into Clarice.  I'm supposed to be Clarice."  

…

Susana Alvarez Lecter pulled into the condo complex and looked around in the dark night.  No one was there.  It was a pleasant place, a nice place.  But it was certainly not where _she would have lived.  She stepped from the car and stood in front of unit 252 for a moment.  Lisa's keys jangled in her purse as she pulled them out.  There weren't many keys on the ring and it was a simple matter of trial and error before one of them worked in the lock.  Susana held her breath, waiting for the telltale __beeeeeep of an alarm system, but apparently Lisa was satisfied with a deadbolt lock and a key-in-knob jobbie.  Not too bad, she had to admit. The key-in-knob lock would've taken her all of thirty seconds to get past, but the deadbolt was good quality and well fitted. That would've slowed her down for a bit.  _

The condo was not spacious, but it looked comfortable.  A middle-class abode for a middle-class woman.  Susana flexed her hands in the leather gloves she wore and opened her cousin's kitchen cabinets to check out her china.  She shook her head.  Nothing good.  Perhaps she would send her cousin something nice – Lenox, maybe – when this was over.  

The living room got only a cursory notice. The couch was decent but not worth a second look.  A vinyl La-Z-Boy that Susana suspected was inherited – it screamed 'guy chair' and looked to be as old as Susana herself.  The TV was 32 inches, the stereo middle of the line.  There was nothing to interest Susana here.  She headed upstairs.  

Lisa's bathroom interested her only for a few minutes.  She took Lisa's toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a comb. She discovered that her cousin favored department-store cosmetics, and not much of them.  Better than drugstore, she supposed.  It was Lisa's bedroom that she sought out.  It was a larger room than she would have expected, and quite comfortable.  A queen-size bed took up one quadrant of the room.  There was a smaller TV on a table set where Lisa could watch TV in bed.  Between the bed and the wall, hidden as if contraband, were three paperback novels by Shawn Irons.  Susana grinned at the sight of them. 

Lisa's closet gained her what she was looking for. _ There was a black pants suit that she held up against her own frame and tossed in the bag for herself.  Lisa did not go for name brands, unfortunately, and the suit was a step below what she usually favored.  But, it would be of great help in enacting the final phase of the plan.  It would fit well enough.  _

Pink fuzzy slippers made her grin as she scooped them up and put them in the black leather carryall she had bought.    Lisa's taste in sleepwear appeared to run more towards the comfort side of things.  Mostly flannel pajama pants.  There was a small safe on the closet floor with a keypad lock, and that attracted Susana's interest.  She squatted, thought for a moment, and punched in 03052004 on the keypad.  With a click, the door swung open.  Her birthday.  Lisa's too, she amended.  _Well, I declare, Cousin Lisa, why don't y'all just write the combo on a sticky note and stick it to the door? Inside were a small, cut-down .45 and a 9mm Beretta.  Susana nodded, pleased that Lisa at least had enough brains to lock up her weapons.  Too bad the combination was so easy to figure out.  There was a bureau across the room, and Susana scooped up some underwear for her cousin from the middle drawer.  _

She'd squared away her cousin's needs, she thought.  Bathrobe, change of clothes, clean underwear.  It would also give her a great opportunity to smuggle her cousin's identification back to her.  Lisa's FBI ID had been in her pants pocket, and Susana had unwittingly taken it along with her pants when she escaped the apartment.  Luke was having at it now with his scanner, busily trying to duplicate it as best he could.  Susana tried to explain to him that it didn't need to be perfect.  If Lisa went for a new picture, the whole thing would be shot, but Susana did not think she would.  Not immediately.  There were other things to keep in mind, like keeping alive and mourning Will Graham.  Susana didn't want her cousin to go get a new picture with her new face and hair color.  She wanted her to keep the old one a while longer.  And besides, she _did want Lisa to have a comfortable convalescence.  Dropping these things off would help her cousin out._

She glanced across the room to the closed door in the hall.  The blueprints she had seen at Town Hall indicated it would be a second bedroom.  Susana thought it likely that Lisa used it as an office of sorts.  She walked calmly forward and opened the door.  Her eyes flicked around the room, taking in each item.  Her jaw dropped open, just a bit.  She could see herself in the mirror on the opposite wall.  The expression on her face was one she had seen before, but never on her own face: shock and surprise.  

A computer and desk took up one corner of the room.  The rest of the room was all about her.  

A bookshelf held copies of her case file.  Next to it, incongruously, were copies of the yearbook from Susana's college years at the University of Buenos Aires.  Next to those were yearbooks from the private academy that she had attended for high school._  Next to that, books on introductory Argentine Spanish and Argentine history.  A box held receipts from Susana's prior purchases.  The wall held framed copies of Susana's bachelor's degree from UBA, as well as her degree from Harvard Medical School under the name of Alina Lektor.  __They let **her have a copy of ****my degree? Susana thought incredulously.   **_

Next to the degrees were photographs of Susana, just as if they were normal family with no murder in the mix at all.  But not quite.  Susana's mug shot was there.  Next to that, the picture they had taken in lieu of a mug shot back in Wheeling, when she had been in the ICU.  And again, college and high school yearbook pictures.    A snapshot she'd put in the yearbook, of her and her then-best friend. She had just turned sixteen, completely innocent of murder.  The two of them were sprawled across the hood of Susana's first Mustang like fashion models.  Incongruously, the handcuffs that Lisa had apparently locked onto her wrists three months ago were mounted on a wooden plaque next to that snapshot.  A small brass oval on the plaque had her name and the date of her arrest.  Presumably the FBI would not let Lisa have her head stuffed and mounted on the wall, so this was a substitute.  Susana stared at all of them in amazement. 

Two large sheets of butcher paper on the walls were carefully lined into charts.  Charted therein were names, magazine subscriptions, and extravagant purchases of the types Susana liked.  Examining these told Susana that Lisa had cracked a few of her identities, missed a few entirely, and gotten a few that weren't her.  Some woman would be extraordinarily angry if she found out.   In the closet hung a Hermes suit that Susana gawped at.  The dry cleaners had told her it was accidentally lost six months ago.  She'd have to track them down when she had more time.  Outright liars. And next to it…  _¡que bàrbaro!  A uniform from the high school Susana had attended as a girl.  How had Lisa ever gotten her hands on that?  The shipping alone must've been insane._

Shock was not an emotion Susana Alvarez Lecter was familiar with, and so she sank down into the chair by Lisa's computer.  A stunned, humorless laugh escaped her as she looked around at her cousin's shrine.  She looked around the room, realizing just how much her cousin had studied her.  Like a rare specimen.  Lisa Starling's second bedroom was a shrine to her.  She tried to imagine Lisa bent over the keyboard late into the night, dialing into the FBI's network, carefully delving into her life and studying her.  And they thought _she was crazy?  _

"Well, I _declare," she said in the empty room.    "No __wonder you caught me, Cousin Lisa.  Obsess much?"  _

Then an idea occurred to her.  She took the criminal file and looked in it.  Had Lisa known?  There it was, right on top.  Susana grabbed a few stapled-together sheets of paper and slid it into her pocket.  She'd confront Lisa with it later. For now, she had to get out.  

She debated taking back her suit.  After all, it was _hers, and for it to be here was nothing short of outright theft.  Then again, fair was fair – she was borrowing one of Lisa's.  And hers was much nicer anyways.  Lisa was coming out ahead of the game.  It was so __very tempting to leave her cousin a little surprise to let her know of her presence.  But no, not yet.  That could jeopardize things.  They would be tight enough as they were, and Susana needed all the wiggle room she could get. _

She left, bags in hand, and locked up carefully.  A hardware store enabled her to copy Lisa's keys easily.  Once this was over, she wanted to get her hands on her entire case file.  But that would have to wait.  Lisa would notice it missing, even while mourning over Grampa Graham.  In a few more days, the wound she had inflicted would be complete, and she would get the file then.  

She headed back to Luke's home.  He had his stuff ready and packed, keeping out just what he needed to make decent copies of the ID's.  A bag of prior purchases sat on the backseat of the rented sedan.  She was satisfied with the car:  a big sedan.  It would be necessary to do what she wanted to do.  And it wouldn't be much longer anyway.  

Luke was sitting at his computer.  Most of his stuff was boxed up already, and he was ready to go.  He passed her a plastic laminated card.  Susana perused it and decided it was a very good copy of Lisa Starling's FBI identification.  She slid it into a black wallet she had obtained and smiled at him.  

"Wow," she said appreciatively.  "This is great."  

Luke nodded.  "Got one of my own, too," he said.  "But they'll suspect this one, because they know he's already dead." 

Susana shrugged.  "Won't be for long," she replied.  "Let's get ready.  I need to drop off some stuff for Lisa.  Then we have to wait."  

She gave Luke his bag and went upstairs to change.  Lisa's suit fit her tolerably well.  Enough to pass.  It was better this way, Susana thought as she stared at herself in the mirror.  She could've bought herself a suit, but this was better.  It was real.  Compared to what she usually wore, it was a rag, but it was real.  She would pass unnoticed in this suit.  She pulled on a shell and then her shoulder holster.  

When she got back downstairs, Luke had dressed in the fatigues.  The name _Taylor was sewed above the pocket, the letters __HRT sewed above the other.  Susana had carefully transplanted all the patches from the unfortunate Agent Taylor's original uniform to these BDU's.  This one actually fit him well, and did not sport bloodstains.  He checked the holstered 9mm on his belt and scowled down at it.  _

"Feels heavy," he said.  "I'm not used to guns." 

Susana sighed.  "Didn't you use guns in the Army?" she asked.  

He shrugged.  "In basic. And we didn't carry pistols.   Rifles, M-16's."  

"This might be dangerous," she said.  "If they recognize the name, they'll know we're bogus.  We may have to fight our way out." 

He shrugged.  "The Lord will watch over His servants," he said simply.  Susana fought the urge to roll her eyes.  But hopefully, they would believe her.  

In the driveway, he took a long look at the house before getting behind the wheel of the sedan.  Susana let him drive.  Easy way to keep the peace in the relationship, plus it gave her time to think.  This would be an excellent dry run for the third strike.  The drive to the hospital was short. 

The ER was noisy and busy, the way all ER's were. It was easy for Susana and Luke to enter and simply walk through the bustle.  They looked like they knew where they were going, and no one bothered them or asked them what they were doing.  It wasn't until they reached the floor Lisa was staying in that there was a guard.  Just one, on Lisa's door.  The guard was a plainclothes FBI agent.  An older man, dressed in a plain gray suit, blending nicely into the woodwork, ready to politely tell anyone to leave, and if that didn't work, shoot them.  Laura Miehns had finally gone home for the night after this agent had arrived to relieve her.  

Susana strode up to him, Luke walking a half step behind her as if he was her bodyguard.  The guard looked curiously at her and walked a few steps forward on an intercept course.  He was polite and calm when he spoke.  For his part, Luke did exactly what Susana wanted him to: assumed a parade rest position, looked like a bodyguard, and shut up.

"This is a private area, ma'am, I'm afraid there's no admittance." 

Susana smiled and blinked.  The contact lenses turned her eyes from maroon to dark brown, almost black.  She preferred blue as a disguise color, but she didn't want to resemble Lisa's clone.  She pulled out her copy of Lisa's ID and flashed it quickly. 

"Hi," she said archly.  "I'm Special Agent Singleton.  I know the story.  I'm a friend of Lisa's, we were in the Academy together." 

The guard nodded.  "There's no admittance," he said.  "I'm sorry." 

Susana took the leather bag off her shoulder.  "I understand," she said.  "It's a rough time, after all.  This is just some stuff I picked up for her from her place.  Underwear and such.  Could you give this to her, please?" 

The guard took it and examined the contents critically.  Satisfied that Lisa's bathrobe and slippers would pose no threat to security, he glanced up at her and nodded silently. 

"Thank you," she said. 

"She's asleep," the guard said.  "Otherwise I'd ask if she wanted to see you." 

Susana had counted on this.  "I don't want to disturb her, just let her have that," she said calmly.  "Thank you so much.  Keep her safe."  She essayed a shudder.  "I know I'll feel a lot better once this is over," she said with complete honesty.  

"We all will," the guard said with complete neutrality.  He took the bag inside the room.  For just a flash, Lisa Starling was visible to those in the hall.  She was indeed asleep in her bed.  Susana allowed herself an instant to stare at her sleeping cousin, their resemblance stronger now.  Then she turned and left.  Luke left a moment behind her, feeling oddly torn.  Seeing them looking so alike confused him.  The girl in the bed could have _been Susana.  _

Then they were gone, heading back to the car.  Susana was pleased.  If the third strike went like this, Behavioral Sciences would suffer another heavy would shortly.  

"So what next?" Luke asked.  

Susana stared ahead into the night.  "Graham's funeral will be in a few days," she said confidently.  "We lie low until then.  I got us a suite at a hotel in the city.  Ever stay in a five-star place?  You'll like it.  It'll make for a nice base of operations until we leave.  We'll get our stuff in the morning."  She gestured for him to turn onto the Beltway.  

The suite was as glamorous as Susana had expected.  A beautiful view of old Georgetown beckoned from the windows.  Luke thought it was almost too opulent.  _Two _full bathrooms.  It seemed ostentatious to him, glorying in luxury.  It struck him as vaguely sinful.  Susana showed no such compunction:  she ordered sushi from room service, commandeered the master bathroom and set herself up with a bubble bath.  

Night enveloped the city.  The windows of the suite Susana shared with Luke twinkled against the velvet darkness like valiant little sparks, but eventually it won out as it always did.  It ruled in the cold steel drawer where Will Graham lay, his journey done. It swathed the hospital where Lisa Starling slept, under the watchful eyes of her guards.  The next phase lay ahead.


	19. Third Strike

                Two days later proved to be a warm and sunny day, a beautiful day.  A day tailor-made for going to the park, for picnics and Frisbees and dogs.  Lisa Starling stood in a row of agents in a green, verdant field.  But the field was Arlington National Cemetery, and the occasion was hardly a joyful one.  Will Graham's graveside service was a sad, but memorable occasion.  

                It seemed that every current FBI agent in Washington, DC was there to pay their final respects:  the rows behind Lisa seemed to go on forever with somber faces in dark suits.  There were even police officers from local jurisdictions present; occasional dress uniforms dotted the landscape of business suits.  Ahead of her, Will's stepson Willy – or Bill, as he had introduced himself – stood with his family, stolid grief on his face.  Lisa sighed and brushed a speck of dirt from her skirt.  It wasn't a real black suit, but it was a dark gray.  She hadn't been able to find the black pants suit she usually reserved for such occasions.  

                Laura Miehns was not visibly present.  The HRT had taken up positions around the gravesite.  It was possible that Susana Alvarez Lecter might try to attend the funeral.  Lisa knew that they were around, hidden in trees and vans and inserted in plainclothes at the service itself.  So far, nothing had been seen.  

                Her face was healing nicely.  The bruising around her eyes had gone down some, but was still there.  She was still vaguely bothered by the idea of her face resembling Clarice's.  For Lisa, Clarice had always been the dark shadow over her, the one who came before her who had chosen evil.  Chosen evil and birthed evil.  Clarice had turned her back on the FBI, knowingly betrayed her oath to protect and serve, and had borne the daughter who was responsible for so much death.  To wear her face creeped Lisa out.  As soon as this was over, Lisa was going to have whatever she could undone.  

                The crime reports had been added to Susana's file, already as thick as the DC Yellow Pages.  It galled Lisa that a photograph of her, hanging on the cross in her bra and panties, was now part of Susana's file, where any FBI agent could get it.  But Susana was quite effective at finding ways to humiliate and torment.  And the photographs of Will's horrific torment still made her stomach churn in a way that other crime scene photos did not.  It had simple redoubled Lisa's determination to see her cousin in handcuffs once again.  

                They had been running records and trying to track down the three men on Lisa's list.  Charles Pearson was probably not it.  He was married, had a son, and didn't seem to be a killer at all.  Plus, he had been the first of the ministers sent to try and counsel Susana.  Lisa didn't think it was him.  The other two were more questionable.  Bart Stapleton was a real possibility.  He was an ex-con himself.  He'd served four years for aggravated assault, getting out six years ago.  He claimed to have reformed, but that made Lisa wonder.  His prison records indicated a man with dark hair, but hair color was easy to change, as her own Clarice-style reddish-brown hair indicated.   Luke Taylor was simply hard to find.  He worked for a local financial company as a systems administrator, but hardly anyone knew him personally there and he had recently taken time off.   A patrol car sent by his house had discovered he wasn't there.  It was hard to say:  he could just be on vacation, but he could be shacked up with Susana. 

                So she had to choose from the violent and the vanished.  They hadn't come up with any plane tickets or hotel reservations for him. The field offices had all been notified, and they were looking.  Lisa hoped that he would turn up and they could finalize it before…well, before Susana struck again.

                The minister was talking, but Lisa found it hard to pay attention.  She could not reconcile the words of peace and love that he was talking about with Graham being tortured to death in front of her eyes.  Her eyes flicked around the graveyard.  Idly she wondered if Susana would attempt to show up.  It wouldn't have surprised her – Susana liked to flaunt it when she could – but Lisa could not shake the thought that she wasn't, and that made her nervous.  When Susana was laying back in the tall grass, that usually meant she was planning something. 

…

                Six o'clock.  Graham's wake had been from two until four.  All the victims would be at home now, hopefully.  Some might be eating, some might not.  Susana had been preparing all afternoon.  This would not be easy, but it would be doable.  With a little bit of luck, they'd be able to do this. Fortunately, Cousin Lisa had been out and about, so that everyone in the FBI would have seen her new hair color and bruised eyes.  So passing would be easy.  

                Susana adjusted the sunglasses she wore and checked the 9mm on her belt.  Her briefcase was packed and ready.  Latex gloves, knives, and everything else she might need.  Luke was checking over his fatigues again and making sure his collar was straight.  That bothered Susana not in the slightest.  He had to pass for HRT, after all.  

                She glanced down at the cell phone she had purchased that afternoon, while Lisa and the rest of the FBI had been at the wake.  Weeping over their dead old man.  There were about to be a lot more dead people.  The phone was a prepaid deal, bought for cash in a convenience store.  It had been a simple matter to buy a few cards for it and call to have it activated.  They'd asked her for her name and address and she'd given them Lisa's.  

                She'd preprogrammed the numbers she planned to call in it while Luke cleaned the weapons and prepared.  He did well at that.  He'd also picked through the various things he wanted to do.  That had annoyed Susana a bit – this was work.  Given her preferences, she would have simply shot each one and moved on.  But then again, Luke's style could be fun.  She thought of her Toronto murders and grinned.  There had been some art to it, after all.  One of these days she really ought to find out how long poor Meagan had lasted before she let go of the tourniquets….

                "Ready?" Luke asked. 

                Susana nodded and grinned.  "You know what you're supposed to do, right?" 

                Luke snapped to attention, assumed a parade rest position, and stared straight forward like the soldier he had once been.  "Agent Taylor, HRT.  I'm detailed to the BSU Protective Detail."  His voice was almost robotic.  Susana clapped her hands approvingly. 

                "_Very nice," she said. _

                "Then I just stand around and shut up.  Until we get inside.  And then…we _martyr."  _

                "Yes, yes," Susana said.  "Nothing too involved, though.  We've got a lot of work to do." 

                "I did it myself, before," Luke offered.  "Not that hard, really.  God was watching."  

                They left the suite and headed down to the front of the hotel, where the rented sedan waited.  Susana slid into the passenger seat and let him drive. That slightly irked her – she preferred to drive when she could – but it was necessary.   She was disguised as an ally, and she needed to pass for one.  She dialed the first number and waited.  When she spoke, her voice was a bit higher than normal, and she spoke with the accent she delighted in tormenting her cousin with.   Since it wasn't Lisa on the other end of the line, she did not indulge herself in country speech.

                A man's voice answered.  "Baker residence," he said tonelessly.

                "Hi," she said.  "This is Agent Starling.  Is Agent Baker there?" 

                "One moment," the military robot on the other end of the line said.  Then he came back.  "I need your ID number, Agent Starling." 

                Susana flipped open the case she'd stuck her duplicate ID card in and squinted at the number.  So carefully had Luke constructed the card that it was legible.  "B504435213," she said.  

                "This isn't a contact number we have for you," he said.

                Susana sighed and tried to envision Lisa exasperated.  "It's my personal phone, okay?  The battery on my FBI phone died.  You should be able to see it's me on the caller ID."  

                "You're supposed to contact other profilers only via recognized numbers," the voice said implacably.  

                Throwing herself into her role, Susana lay her head back against the seat.  How would Lisa react to this?  She gritted her teeth and adopted a frustrated tone.

                "Listen," she said.  "My phone battery died, all right?  I just came back from Will Graham's wake and saw him buried.  How about cutting me a little slack?" 

                The voice was silent on the other end for a moment.  "Just one moment, Agent Starling."  A few minutes passed.  Then Bart Baker, of the FBI's Behavioral Sciences division, came on the line.  

                "Hi, Starling," he said.  "What's up?" 

                "Hi," Susana said, making sure to draw out the vowels in her mother's accent.  "I was looking at a few things and wanted to drop by and get your opinion on something." 

                "Susana's accomplice?" he asked.  Susana's ears perked.  The FBI knew about Luke?  How much did they know? 

                "Yes," she said.  "I've been running some names and came up with some records.  I'd like to sit down with you and see if you could tell me anything from what you see."  

                He seemed surprised.  Susana supposed that Lisa did not have much truck with him.  But even that was okay.  _Just play the knight in shining armor, buddy, and this'll work just fine.  _

_                "Sure, all right," he said.  "You doing okay?  You sound a little different." _

                "It's just hard," Susana admitted, throwing herself into her role.  "I mean, I had to watch while she…while she…," 

                "I know, Starling.  I'll tell the guard to expect you.  See you in a bit." 

                "Thanks," Susana cooed, and grinned.  This was going to be easy.   She closed her eyes and consulted the Hall of Enemies in her memory palace.  It took her only a minute to come up with the address, which was about twenty minutes away.  Traffic wasn't too bad and soon they were in suburban Virginia.  

                There was a local police cruiser parked outside Baker's door.  Susana nodded calmly.  Luke pulled the car over and they alighted .  Almost immediately, the local cop was on them, asking for identification.  Susana pulled out her duplicate FBI ID and flashed it at him.  

                "Special Agent Starling, FBI," she said.  "This is Agent Taylor, HRT.  He's my bodyguard.  The guy inside should have told you we were coming." 

                The cop's doughy face changed from challenging to servile.  "Oh, yeah.  Go on in, Agent Starling."  

                Susana strutted unchallenged up the driveway to the door.  This was actually sort of fun.  Was this what it was like for Lisa?  Just flash her ID and get whatever she wanted?  Her fake wouldn't have gotten her into Quantico, but it would work for these jury-rigged protective custody arrangements.  Susana could have planned it a lot better.  She knew what those who might target profilers would be thinking.  

                Her face was close enough to Lisa's new face.  The sunglasses hid her eye color.  And no one would think anything of them, not after seeing the bruises her surgery had left.  The guard at the door, a federal marshal, let her in. That was good.  No HRT.  They would know Luke wasn't real.  She knew eventually she would hit someone being guarded by HRT, and that was going to require a shootout to get to her victim.  

                She was feeling better about this than she had before.  Susana's rare brain could calculate strategy and tactics as easily as her father's.  She still thought that way, but she found herself in an excellent mood as she entered Bart Baker's house.  This was work, but it was also fun.  And Susana liked her fun.  Luke's first strike must have been a cakewalk – no guards at all.   There was only one guard here, standing by the door as she and Luke came in. 

                Bart Baker appeared in the doorway, a small man trim and neat in a white shirt and black Dockers.  Susana smiled at him.  She traded a glance with Luke and reached for her briefcase with her left hand.  Her right hand hovered near her right hip.  

                "Hi, Baker," she said.  "How're you?"  

                Baker's face furrowed a bit.  Susana realized that he suspected something.  Up close, she didn't pass exactly for Lisa.  Or she'd forgotten the accent. Well, it was time anyway.  She looked at Luke.

                "Go," she said, and pivoted.   Her right hand dug in her jacket and drew the 9mm.  As Luke sprinted across the room to grab Baker, Susana grabbed the marshal with her left hand.  She pressed the gun into his temple and fired twice.  

                There was little sound: the muzzle was firm against the marshal's head and the escaping gases were vented into his skin rather than the surrounding air.  Brains and blood splattered on the wall behind him in a great Pollock canvas of death.  The marshal's corpse slithered to the ground, life dying out in his eyes as suddenly and clearly as a candle flame being blown out.   Susana relieved the corpse of his pistol and handcuffs and went after Luke and Baker.  

                Luke had Baker in the kitchen.  He had the shorter man's right arm twisted behind his back and an arm around his throat. He was grinning.  Baker's eyes were wide, staring at Susana as she came in.  She dug in her briefcase and came out with a silver roll of duct tape.  

                "What the…what…Starling?" he asked.  It had been no more than thirty seconds since Susana had asked him how he was.   Emotional shock, Susana supposed.  A wonder the human race managed to get by.   

                "Only on my mother's side," Susana admitted, and pulled off a strip of the duct tape.    She slapped it neatly over his mouth. Luke dragged the other man into the living room.  It was easy for him to control the frightened, struggling profiler while Susana perused the room thoughtfully for what she wanted, a hand on her chin like a woman deciding how to decorate her bedroom.  She gestured to the bannister, and Luke compliantly dragged their victim over to it.   He slammed Baker against the side of the stairs.

                "Can you hold up his arms?" she asked.  Luke shrugged and nodded, holding up Baker's right arm.  Susana eyed it carefully.  She tried to measure how this would work.   

                "A little to the left," she said.  Luke shuffled his prisoner two steps left.  Susana scowled. "No, back the other way.  I liked it better the first time."  Luke let out a sigh.  

                "He's not a Christmas tree," Luke said. 

                "No, that'll do."  Susana allowed ,and walked forward.  She took the handcuffs and locked them onto Bart Baker's wrists, running the chain between a post of the bannister so that he was forced to stand with his hands cuffed overhead.  Then she returned to her briefcase and removed two surgical robes and two pairs of latex gloves.  She slipped into one robe and then helped Luke to tie on his.  Finally, from the briefcase, she removed two long, sharp knives.  The blades were almost a foot long, making the knives seem to be short swords.  The point was almost square, rising to a diagonal point.  Luke grinned ecstatically when he saw them.  _Just like St. Bartholomew, he thought.  __Bart.  Bartholomew.  Susana gave one to Luke and replaced it with a scalpel.  _

                When she approached Bart Baker, he pulled away hard enough to dig the handcuffs into his wrists.  Susana simply ignored this and ripped open his shirt.  His slightly paunchy belly lay exposed.  She stared at it for a second or two, calculating.  

                "Here," she said.  "You want to try this, right?  I'll do one, you watch me, and then you try."  

                She cut a line approximately the length of the blade in Baker's stomach.  The gloved fingers of her left hand grasped the edge of the strip of flesh firmly. She wiggled the blade into position and then began to press hard.  The knife was made for this task, and it did its job well.  It sank between the epidermis and body of Bartholomew Baker quite easily.  Baker screamed and keened, the noise muted and foghorning from the duct tape over his mouth.  Susana grunted with the effort as she carefully flayed a wide strip of flesh away from his abdomen and lower ribcage. Blood began to well almost immediately, and she had to step back to avoid getting the pants of her suit stained.  She pulled the strip away at the belt buckle and cut it off square.  Satisfied, she turned back to Luke, the bloody flaying knife in her right hand, a twelve-inch-long, fourteen-inch-wide strip of human flesh in her left.  

                "See?" she said.  "Now you try." 

                Luke took the scalpel and cut a line in Baker's skin on the other side.  He was not a trained surgeon, and his line was not straight.  He felt uncomfortable under Susana's level gaze, even as Baker squirmed and struggled in his grip.  He had to pick at the edge to get it to come free from the body.   But once the blade got started moving through gristle and muscle it wasn't too hard.  His strip was a little more ragged than hers, but it would do. 

 It seemed to be mostly a question of force, once you actually got to the flaying part.  Baker's struggles seemed weaker already. Blood seemed to sheet from the wounds:  an amazing amount of blood, even considering that the wounds were so large and wide.  Perhaps he knew it would do no good.  Luke glanced up at his hands:  red where the cuffs were digging into them.  Luke had killed enough to know that the fists would reveal half-moon-shaped bruises where the fingernails were digging into the palms.  The sign of a martyr.  

                She seemed interested in his work, and told him to do another.  He was anxious to show her that he was worthy of her interest, so he set about flaying Bart Baker alive with great zeal and interest.  He began higher than she had, at the shoulder level, and steadily worked the blade, separating Baker's skin and his body with precision and care.  Luke was debating whether to turn him around or start on the legs.  He didn't want to take Baker's pants off in front of Susana.  The decision was made for him when Bartholomew Baker died of blood loss, hanging limp in his handcuffs.  

                Susana strode across to the kitchen and hunted up a plastic bag, in which she placed the bloody robes and knives.  She smiled brightly at Luke as he put his trash into the bag.  Once that was done, the plastic bundle disappeared into Susana's briefcase.  

                "C'mon," Susana said brightly.  "Nice work, Luke." She seemed pleased with him.  Luke felt his heart swell with joy as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink.  "We've got more left to do, you know."  

                "Are we going to…martyr them?" he asked.  "All of them?" 

                "Martyr some, shoot some," Susana said airily.  "But we've got a schedule to keep." 

                Hit hard, hit fast, and hit brutally.  That was what Susana had told Luke to do at the first strike, and what they were doing now.  The method was brutally simple: take out three or four as quickly as you could, within a few hours, so that by the time the FBI put two and two together, four people were dead instead of one or two.  It was a task only for cool, skilled killers.  

                Susana checked him over for signs of obvious blood.  There was none.  Satisfied, they closed the door behind them and strolled back nonchalantly to their car.  The local cop glanced at them.  

                "That was quick, Agent Starling," he said. 

                Susana shrugged.  "Sometimes you take care of things quickly," she answered.   Luke simply nodded at the cop and slid behind the wheel, one man sworn to protect acknowledging another.  Susana opened her door and sat down.  The sedan's big engine grumbled to life.  

                "Are we going to…?" Luke asked, not looking at the local cop. 

                Susana shook her head.  "No need," she said.  "Baker's taken care of, isn't he? It'll be much more fun when they find out and he has to explain how he let us in."  She chuckled.  

                Luke pulled out into the street as Susana consulted the next name on her list.  She dialed a number and waited a moment for the call to connect.  

                "Hi, this is Special Agent Starling," she said again.  "Is Agent McGee there?" 

                The third strike had begun.


	20. Collision Course

Anthony McGee's residence was in the city, in a tall apartment building. Quite grand, really. Susana toyed with the idea of hanging him from the side of the building as she cleared the guard at the door with Lisa's ID. This time it was merely plainclothes FBI agents. Since she'd called ahead, they accepted her ID without question and sent her up, wishing her good luck in catching her cousin. 

It was so easy, she thought, that it was almost boring. Were they really so blind that they could not see what was happening? It was true that Bartholomew Baker was only ten minutes dead, lying flayed and undiscovered against his stairs. But still, she thought, all these guards and guns and safeguards, and none of it hindered her in the slightest as she rode in the elevator up to her latest victim. She smiled at Luke as they went up. 

He really was more experienced and intelligent than she had originally thought. When she'd told him she wanted to hit the FBI again, but had to get past the guards, it had been Luke who had told her if she could get him an FBI ID card, he could scan and print it so closely that it would appear valid to everything but a hand inspection. And he had been right when he pointed out that it was their procedure to simply flash the ID rather than subject it to a rigorous inspection. 

They were fools, Susana decided. They still had no idea what this was. Five profilers dead now – six, if you counted their old man – and they hadn't realized what was going on. They believed it was simply law enforcement, tracking down the criminal to bring them to justice. Were it that, she would have never come back from South America. This was not law enforcement. This was war. 

When she knocked and showed her ID, the guard behind it wore an HRT uniform. _Damn. _He would know Luke was not real HRT. He scrutinized Susana carefully. For a moment, she was nervous. The door was metal; she couldn't fire through it. Thankfully, Luke was behind her where the agent could not see him. 

"Hi," she said calmly and showed him her ID. Same drill as before. "I'm Special Agent Starling. We spoke on the phone."

The guard looked at her curiously. "Where's your bodyguard, Starling?" 

"Right here behind me," Susana said, and decided to strike before he noticed. She uncrossed her arms and casually reached for her own pistol. Her left hand held the side of the door casually. She choreographed what was about to happen in her mind before she did it – this was an apartment building and there could be no audible gunfire. She asked him to open the door and he slipped the chain free. 

The guard was holding the doorknob, but loosely. He didn't expect her to be able to overpower him. Had he been alert, he might even have stopped her. But Susana had inherited her father's strength amongst other things, and when she grabbed the door and yanked, the guard seemed surprised. The doorknob popped painfully out of his hand. Her gun was already in her hand as she moved forward. 

Susana silenced the gun the way she had before, the best way. She pressed the muzzle into the guard's stomach and fired twice. His T-shirt rippled under the BDU jacket as two lead slugs tore into his insides. To his credit, he grabbed for his weapon immediately, even as he fell. Susana went down with him and put a third slug into his head, the muzzle pressed against his forehead. Same as before, by the book. Clarice Starling had taught her daughter the FBI creed on shooting, and she had learned well. _Once you draw your weapon, you have made the decision to shoot, so when you shoot, shoot to kill. _

As she untangled herself from the corpse of the guard, she was miffed to discover some blood on the sleeve of her suit. Well, no use crying over spilt milk. Too bad Luke had already killed Laura Thompson, Susana might have been able to grab a suit from her. But McGee was her prey now, and Laura Thompson slipped from her mind as easily as last week's kill slipped from the mind of any predator. 

He proved to be a taller, thinner man. Susana caught him just as he grabbed the phone and tried to dial. She snapped the receiver in two and stepped on the hook switch just to make sure. Luke was right behind her and came in with a pair of handcuffs and duct tape. They were as efficient as long-time partners as they methodically restrained and gagged their victim. 

Overhead was a heavy chandelier, and once Susana saw it she knew what she planned to do. She pointed at it and grinned at Luke. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then looked around the room. He glanced over at an ottoman and nodded, a cold smile coming over his face. He laced his arms through McGee's and held him fast while Susana went hunting for what she wanted. 

She came back dragging a chair and put it under the chandelier. In her other hand she held a coil of rope. It took only a moment to secure a rope around McGee's ankles, then Susana hopped up on the chair. Standing on the chair, she reminded Luke of a woman trying to change a lightbulb, perhaps, or get something down from a high shelf. He admired her form as she grabbed the chandelier, pulled it close to her, and carefully lifted it from the chain. She stepped down carefully from the chair to put the chandelier on the floor, then hopped back up to secure the rope to the chain that the chandelier was suspended from. From here, Luke thought, it would be strong enough for their purpose. 

McGee didn't seem terribly happy to see Susana suspending a rope from his chandelier. He bucked against Luke, who simply tightened his grip. Once the rope was looped through the chain, Susana hauled on it. McGee tumbled to the floor, then started inching up backwards as Susana pulled him high. In short order, their victim was hanging upside down, his head perhaps three feet from the floor. Luke grinned as he watched the martyr fishtail and struggle. This was something he had tried before. 

Both Susana and Luke looked around the room for something heavy. The woodcut that Luke knew so well used a rock. But Anthony McGee's interior décor did not allow for heavy rocks. His 32 inch television made for an acceptable substitute. Luke pulled it off the entertainment center and laid it down under the struggling man. He glanced into his – their, he corrected himself, their victim's reddening face. 

"Do you believe in God?" he asked. 

Susana neatly tied a harness around the television. She tested it, lifting the rope, and seemed pleased. Luke squatted and grabbed the plastic sides of the TV, lifting it so that she could tie it off. Working as swiftly as she had in repairing someone's aorta, Susana tied the rope in a neat knot around McGee's neck. When she nodded, Luke let go of the television. Its weight was now supported by the noose around the man's neck. 

McGee spluttered and choked almost immediately. Susana looked down at him and chuckled.

"Go in peace," she said airily, and smiled at Luke. They left the apartment swiftly, heading for the stairs. The elevator was for amateurs. Andrew McGee hung head-down in his living room, his face turning red, his windpipe closing down. The weight was nauseating, sickening somehow, like a thumb over an eye. He tried fruitlessly to pull his handcuffed hands free, hoping beyond hope to break steel with his bare hands. To his credit, he kept trying, pulling and twisting against the awful weight even until everything faded into a great pool of black. 

In the car heading to the next hit, Susana checked her watch and scowled. This would only work if it was done quickly. She could kill four people in two hours and get away with it. But every minute counted. Once the first murder was discovered, she knew, the first reaction of the forces guarding the targets she sought would be to check in with each other. Then they would find Baker and McGee. 

"No martyring on this one," she told Luke. "We need to make better time." 

Luke shrugged. Watching McGee turn and swing with the television tied around his neck had put him in a fine mood. He only wished he had time to stay and watch as life was slowly choked from the man's body. But what a wonder to watch – an evil man, part of the dark forces threatening his bride's life – as well as his own, he supposed – being turned to martyrdom, sacrificing his life but attaining eternal glory. 

The next stop was a condo complex not unlike Lisa's. As before, Susana called, identifying herself as her cousin. As before, they arrived and were let in. This time, the profiler's name was Jason Kleinberg. The condo was small and the neighbors would probably hear, but the car was right outside. So when the local officer opened the door to let them in, Susana simply shot him right there. Luke decided to show his bride that he, too, could appreciate the more direct methods of killing, so he pursued the dark-haired man and tackled him. This time, however, he simply placed the muzzle of his pistol against the back of the man's head. He had seen Susana do this and had figured out that it was to muffle the sound of the gun. 

"Do you believe in God?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, he simply fired. A single high-velocity 9mm bullet destroyed his prey's ability to answer as it pierced the skull Blood and brains sprayed across the blue carpet. He stood and grinned, spreading his arms wide. 

"Was that fast enough for you, my love?" he asked quizzically. 

He loved the expression of bemusement that came over Susana's face. It had been no more than two minutes since they had entered the condo. Susana blinked momentarily, shook her head, and grinned. 

"Of course," she said. "That will do nicely. Now the final attack, the big one." 

…

The TV flickered on, the paper characters of the bad love story running through their roles with all the acting ability of two cardboard boxes. The ending was predetermined, the conflicts and pains the actors went through contrived. But they would end up in each other's arms. Lisa knew it. 

She stared glassily at the screen, sipping occasionally at her second glass of wine. A file sat forlornly in front of her on her coffee table. Susana's file; now added with the latest crime scene reports. If Lisa had not had enough reason to be angry with her cousin, she had one now. A photograph of Lisa on the cross resided in the file now. Any FBI agent who had ever wondered what Lisa's body might look like could find out anything he might want to know now. Tied to the cross, serial-killer victim cheesecake shot, thank you _so _much, dear cousin. How humiliating. The fact that her face was bandaged and unrecognizable did not help much. Everyone in the agency knew it was her. And then there was Graham. Poor Will Graham, whose only crime had been to want to help out his former agency in his old age. His reward had been to be cut open and tortured to death.

So she sat with the wine and the weepy movie on cable, where she'd been since getting back from the wake. Laura Miehns was hovering around the condo, keeping an eye on the windows and doors. She'd left Lisa mostly alone throughout the afternoon and evening. Every time a car cruised by, she kept a close eye on it, occasionally speaking via walkie-talkie to the Alexandria cop parked outside Lisa's door. 

Lisa caught sight of her own face in a mirror on the wall and scowled. Clarice Starling looked back at her. _Couldn't be enough that you came to the FBI before me and betrayed it, did you? Did you ever once think about what it was like coming after you? Everyone knowing my name, figuring that I'm going to shoot everyone and then run off with a serial killer. Then to top it off, you have to bring Susana Alvarez Lecter into the world. Did you ever give a thought for the federal agents she's killed? Did you hate the FBI so damn much you set her loose on us like…like some kind of mad dog? And now I've got your face thanks to your daughter. Thanks, Cousin Clarice. Thank you ever so much. _

She picked up the file desultorily. She'd wanted to put a final name to Susana's accomplice. John Stapleton had steadfastly denied that he was Susana's accomplice. He'd consented to a house search and had generally been cooperative. The real question was, did she accept the word of an ex-con? Especially knowing that Susana would have arranged for that beforehand? 

And then there was Mystery Man. Luke Taylor. He'd disappeared shortly after Susana's escape. He'd been at work for a few weeks, then boom. Lisa shifted on her couch and tried to think. Susana's martyr murders in Canada had been a signal. Lisa was convinced of that: the martyr murders in Toronto had been a signal to the accomplice to start the Black Wednesday murders. 

Could've been either, she thought. Stapleton was certainly big enough and violent enough to be the perp in Black Wednesday. But he seemed to have a bit of a temper. The interviewing officers had noted that he was angry about being accused. His rap sheet bore that out. The crime involved had been a bar fight in which Stapleton had gone after another guy with an iron bar. At issue had been who would drive some woman in the bar. 

But whoever had committed the Black Wednesday murders had been a very disciplined killer. And Susana had not been around to do it. Looking at the murder scenes from Black Wednesday made her cringe, but she saw a very disciplined, very organized killer. Someone who didn't let his temper get to him. That was a point against Stapleton. Lisa could see the UNSUB as possible ex-military. Honorable or medical discharge, she thought: this guy would play by the rules. Although the murders were so horrible, this guy was a planner. Four different types of murder. He only had doubled up because of Warner's kid. And even then he'd improvised. 

Military…hmm. She wondered if Luke Taylor had ever been in the military. Or Stapleton. She checked the file on both men. No one had checked. She ought to ask Quincy; he could get any Black Wednesday-related requests expedited. She went over to the phone and picked it up. Laura Miehns stopped and looked at her curiously. 

"I'm calling Quincy," Lisa said. "Just got an idea." 

She dialed the number and waited. A voice answered, slightly Southern-tinged in accent. 

"Quincy residence," the man on the other end of the line said sharply. Lisa did not need to be told that this was one of Quincy's guards. He, too, was threatened. 

"Hi," Lisa said. "This is Special Agent Starling, agent ID B504435213. Can I talk to Chief Quincy?" 

For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the line. "This is who?" 

"Special Agent Starling," Lisa repeated, puzzled. "Lisa Starling." 

"Oh." The man seemed puzzled. "Did you forget something?"  
"No," Lisa replied, wondering why he would ask that. "Wanted to drop by and talk with Chief Quincy for a bit." 

The man sighed as if she was asking a great deal. "Sure, Agent Starling, no problem." Lisa frowned. What was his problem? She'd only asked him once. 

Laura Miehns looked quizzically at her as she hung up the phone. "Whatcha planning, Starling?" she asked. 

It occurred to Lisa that her bodyguard was probably disinclined to let her leave the house. 

"I…umm….I wanted to ask Quincy something," she said. 

"So why didn't you ask him on the phone?" Miehns asked, not unreasonably. 

"I wanted to go over there," Lisa explained. "Get out of the house." 

Laura Miehns's face curved into a thoughtful look. She looked doubtful. Given her druthers, she would have rather boarded all of the profilers at Quantico around the clock. It was doubtful that Susana Alvarez Lecter, even cocky as she was, would try to attack a heavily armed and guarded Marine base. But since the attack on Lisa and Graham, she was very loath to let her charge out of her sight. 

Lisa raised her clasped hands like a little girl. "Pleeease?" she caroled. "C'mon, it's work. And Quincy's got two HRT boys himself. You were saying you want everything centralized." 

Agent Miehns sighed. "I shouldn't," she advised. "I only like moving you around during the day. And she's already gotten you once. Don't want it happening again." Then her expression softened a bit. 

"But…if I don't, then you'll whine all night that I'm keeping you captive, _and _you'll keep hitting that bottle of wine and watching bad romances on HBO, and then by eleven o'clock you'll be half in the bag and you'll start crying over Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. And I really can't stand the sight of a drunken woman in tears over a bad romance, really. So OK, Starling, but we're taking the prowl car and I'm driving."

"Okay," Lisa said. "Thanks." She smiled a big toothy grin at her guard. She grabbed a briefcase from the kitchen table and stuffed her file in it. She opened the kitchen drawer under the briefcase and extracted her duty Glock, too. The drive over was short. Chief Quincy's house was quite large, set back on its lot in a nice, expensive bit of suburbia. 

They stopped at the patrol car parked in the driveway. Lisa squatted and smiled at the officers inside. 

"Hi," she said, and flashed her ID. The policeman behind the wheel gave her a slightly odd look and nodded instantly. He answered without asking for her name. He sounded bored.

"FBI, huh? Uh…yeah, sure. Go on in." 

Lisa wondered what the hell was going on, but she started walking up the driveway. Laura Miehns fell in behind her. Both women could sense something strange going on. Lisa stopped and listened. The cops behind her were chatting in their patrol car. 

"Hey, man, I wanna be a bigwig in the FBI," one of them laughed. "_I _want a whole bunch of little girlie agents to keep me company." He cackled. "They can come profile me anytime."

"Maybe they're sisters," the others chuckled. "Or cousins or something." 

Lisa Starling halted in the driveway. The bottom fell out of her stomach. Suddenly, the large upper-middle-class house seemed menacing, a squatting predator waiting for her to enter and be devoured. She turned around and walked back to the patrol car. Very slowly, she smiled and looked at them.

"Hi, guys," she said calmly. "You, um…you want to tell me what you were talking about?" 

The cop behind the wheel shifted uncomfortably. "Well…uh…you know, we were just, um, sorta talking…," 

"I know," Lisa said. "What was that about girlie agents?" 

The cop's face was red above the blue serge of his uniform collar. "Just that…well…the other agent who went in there five minutes ago, the other girl agent…woman agent, I mean…she looked a lot like you." 

"The….other woman agent?" Lisa asked. 

"Yeah," the cop said. 

__

The bottom fell out of Lisa's stomach. "Did she leave a name?" 

The cop consulted his clipboard. Somehow, Lisa knew what he was going to say before he said it. 

"Yeah," he said. "Starling. Special Agent Lisa Starling." 


	21. Fair Trade

_Author's note: This chapter has been delayed by a lot of things – being busy at work, cleaning up the house in preparation for a parental visit, some writer's block I seem to be struggling with, but…I am nothing if not ornery. Here we go. _

Lisa Starling drew her weapon as she approached the front door. Her heart was pounding. Laura Miehns was in front of her, her weapon also drawn and out. Agent Miehns had been reluctant to let Lisa in, feeling that Lisa would be a big fat target for Susana, but facts were facts. The agents inside were not responding to phone calls or knocking. The cops in the cruiser were calling for backup. They'd offered to come in, but the two women had decided to have a look first and see, hoping beyond hope that there might be a reasonable explanation. 

Lisa let Laura Miehns open the front door. She covered her carefully as the larger woman opened the door and pointed her weapon to and fro. Carefully, Lisa moved up the driveway and slipped into the house behind her. The bodies of the guards were the first thing she saw. Both corpses were sprawled out on the floor. One sported a small hole in his forehead. The other had one in his shirt. Blood had soaked into the carpeting under each wound. They had been dead long enough for the blood to get sticky. Lisa closed her eyes and swallowed – it was all the gorge she would allow herself. 

The house was fairly large, but the floor plan was pretty standard. There was a living room, a bathroom down the hall, and a kitchen. The kitchen door was closed. Lisa was not sure which to check first. Either the hall or the kitchen might contain their prey. Guessing wrong might be fatal. Lisa moved silently as she could and tried to think. 

They would have their own weapons, but might want to secure the kitchen, since there were plenty of knives. Lisa knew that Susana knew a fair amount about FBI procedure, and had tended to follow it in her killings. Donald Quincy enjoyed cooking, and there might be devices in his kitchen that Susana might want to employ in his death, too. Images of a hand being forced into the churning blades of a blender rose into her mind and she forced them away. She made herself listen for any sounds of her boss and her cousin. There was nothing. 

The most maddening part was the wait. For a moment the urge to run outside and get the cops lolling in the patrol car outside was strong. It would mean more guns. But no, that was out: God forbid what if that was the five minutes Susana needed to kill Quincy? And leaving Miehns alone in the house, HRT commandant or no, was not something Lisa was willing to do. Not with Susana and her accomplice there. 

…

"Hold him," Susana said. 

Don Quincy was not an easy man to hold. He was as tall as Luke and bulkier. He struggled as Luke tried to force him down. But Luke, too, was quite strong. Getting him held down over the heavy wooden butcher block in the center of the kitchen was possible; it was keeping him there that was the hard part. 

Susana sighed and pulled out the skinning knife she had used before. When Quincy saw the knife, he struggled anew, fighting to rise. Very quickly and casually, Susana walked around behind him, slid between Luke and him as neatly as a goldfish swimming between two sharks, and squatted. The wickedly sharp blade whisked through the backs of the legs of Quincy's pants and into the backs of his knees. He grunted in pain and pressed his lips together. But his knees went limp and he was much easier to force onto the butcher block, which was what Susana had intended. 

She rose and crossed around to look down at him. 

"Well, Chief Quincy," she said, "I understand you've got much less manpower than you did before." 

Don Quincy's eyes narrowed at her. "Yes, because of you," he said. "And don't think this is over, Susana. We got you once. We'll get you again." 

"Actually," Susana said archly, "you'll have things to do other than catch me, like protect the profilers you have left." Her eyes gleamed. "You won't be around to hear the news, Chief, so I'll enlighten you. We got you again. As you saw, all your guards were no more useful than toy soldiers in stopping me. Three more profilers are dead, and you're the fourth." 

She saw the look of shock and grief on his face, even as she prepared his death. Well, it was their own damn fault, really. Had they left her alone, they would all be alive. In fact, had they even played by their own damn rules, they would still be alive. 

"Now this is new for me, Chief Quincy," Susana said. "I mean, I've killed FBI agents before. That's nothing new. Do you know the liver and kidneys of a young female FBI agent are quite tasty in cream sauce?" 

"Starling. You didn't." Quincy's eyes were rimmed with pain. Susana tilted her head and wondered if he wanted to get in Lisa's pants. He was a fat, jolly man, looking more like a father than a lover, but even a fat, jolly man has his urges, she supposed.

"Not Starling," she confirmed, eyes twinkling with malice. "Now back to the subject, Chief Quincy. I've killed plenty of grunt FBI agents before, and frankly it's easy. Your agents don't defend themselves well, Chief. Frankly, Will Graham did more to try and save himself than most active duty agents did." 

Susana slid out of her suit jacket and carefully folded it on the counter. She raised the knife high over her head. 

"You're a section chief," she said. "That is new for me, I must say. Killing the boss of Behavioral Sciences…the head, one might say." 

Susana brought the long-bladed knife down as hard as she could. Even as the blade bit into the back of Don Quincy's thick bull neck, she knew it wouldn't go through on the first try. The knife was not made for beheading; it was too light. But she felt the shock contact up her arm and she was pleased to note that she had made it through the upper vertebrae of the spine. The rest would simply be chopping through muscle and cartilage. 

Only her strength made the second shot power most of the way through the neck. She rubbed her hand tenderly, frowning. Don Quincy's hefty form began to quiver in seizure as his body prepared for its death. He wasn't saying anything, but that didn't surprise Susana – the knife had gone about three-quarters of the way through his neck. Only his trachea was holding his head on. 

A third and final chop finally severed his head. Susana stepped sideways gracefully to avoid the jet of blood flowing from the severed stump of his neck. She held the head in her hands, looking in at the glassy eyes. No more plots on how to catch her there, not anymore. 

The kitchen door burst open. Two women, one tall, one short, appeared in the doorway, their weapons out and aimed. Susana recognized Lisa with no surprise at all. She'd kept the hair, Susana noticed, and that pleased her to no end. Or perhaps Lisa just didn't know how easy it was to color her hair. 

"Freeze," Lisa Starling demanded, aiming the weapon at her. "Put your hands on your head." She reached backwards as she walked forward, left hand reaching for her handcuff case. Her right hand remained on the gun, centered at Susana's head. Behind her, framed in the doorway, Laura Miehns kept a bead in Luke. 

"Hands on _my_ head?" Susana asked. "They're already on his." She held up the severed head of Section Chief Don Quincy for his employee's perusal. It had the desired effect. Such a graphic indication that Lisa was, indeed, too late. Lisa stopped and her eyes widened and filled with pain. That was the opening Susana needed. 

Her head swiveled over to Laura Miehns for just a fraction of a second to calculate distance and force. She threw the severed head at the taller woman like a basketball, figuring it would get in the way of her aim, at least. Then Susana lunged for her cousin. 

She grabbed Lisa's wrist with both hands and twisted. The gun slipped out of her fingers, but there was no audible crack or vibration that would indicate she had broken the bone. Oh well. A soft beating might teach Lisa more, all things considered. Susana grabbed the gun and tossed it into an open pot of tomato sauce bubbling away on the stove. The black Glock sank into the sauce and disappeared. Susana grinned. Scratch one gun, at least for the time being. And now Lisa was disarmed. 

She recovered quicker than Susana had thought. Lisa brought her left arm back, and then pistoned it forward. Her hand was not closed into a fist. Instead, her fingers were open and curled. Susana was turning back from having tossed the gun and only had a second to see it coming. _Is she trying to cat-fight me? _Susana thought. 

Then the heel of Lisa Starling's hand smashed into the lens of Susana Alvarez Lecter's sunglasses, as the FBI agent had intended. Lisa smiled tightly as Susana's head rocked backwards, the lens cracked and the sunglasses hanging askew on her face. She could see one of Susana's eyes, maroon and amused, as the pieces of glass fell from the frame. 

"Nice, Lisa," Susana said, and shook her head. Then she moved in to close with her cousin. Behind her, Luke had moved in to grapple with Laura Miehns. Cousin vs. cousin, guard against guard. 

Lisa Starling had learned unarmed combat in the Academy, but had gotten rusty since. Susana had learned to fight from someone, and she was far stronger than her cousin. Lisa allowed Susana to grapple her to the floor, trying to think of what to do next. Her gun was out; she'd seen it sink into the sauce. She had nothing else handy to fight with. She had to figure out what to do quickly, she knew that. 

Susana struck her twice on the ribs, agonizing blows, and Lisa's eyes rolled. Up until now, Lisa had thought that Susana would not kill her, but she had to wonder. And she'd already had a graphic demonstration of the fact that there was plenty Susana _would _do to her. She scrambled away from Susana and ran across the kitchen, to where she'd seen a knife block. A lot better than nothing. As she ran, she overturned a pot of pasta which Don Quincy had been cooking for his dinner before Susana paid her visit. 

She heard a surprised sound from Susana and grinned. _Didn't expect that, did you? _She reached for the knife block. Then something grabbed her ankle and hauled. Lisa had a moment where the world seemed to whirl and twist, and then she, too, was on her back on the floor. Susana grabbed her and pulled her back. The two women wrestled in the pasta on the floor. It was hardly the cat fight that high schoolers engage in: both Lisa and Susana struck hard, with fists, elbows, and knees in place of hair-pulling and clawing. Lisa was beginning to worry about her ability to get out of this fight in one piece: her punches seemed to have no effect on Susana, and Susana's were beginning to make her eyes cross.

On the other side of the room, Luke and Laura Miehns were fighting an equally pitched and brutal battle. Neither one flinched. Eventually, however, Laura delivered a vicious headbutt to the bridge of the religious killer's nose, sending him sprawling. Laura jumped on him, straddled him, and had him cuffed in a trice. She glanced over and saw one woman atop the other, holding a gun to her subdued foe's head with one hand, handcuffs gleaming in the other as she applied them. 

"Cool, Starling, you got her," Laura said, and then froze. Gun? Lisa's gun was marinating in the pot of tomato sauce. Which meant…

"I got her indeed," Susana Alvarez Lecter said, grinning tiredly as she faced her opponent. Her sunglasses were gone, torn off in the melee. Lisa lay under her, handcuffed, her face flushed red with exertion, anger, and humiliation as she lay face-down on the floor. "Playing FBI agent has been a lot of fun. Do I get to read her her rights and take her downtown to book her?" She smiled victoriously and tilted her head at Agent Miehns. "Tell me, do I know you? Your voice sounds familiar but I don't recall your face. Well, before this go-round, at least." 

"Laura Miehns, FBI. HRT. We spoke on the radio once," Laura said, her face hard. "Just before you murdered my men. I'm Lisa's bodyguard."

_"Bodyguard._" Susana rolled the word around her mouth as if it was quite amusing. "Yes, I recall now. You told me I'd signed my own death warrant. Well, Agent Miehns, you'll certainly get to guard Lisa's body, but I presume you want it to be a _live _body. So unless you want to sign Lisa's death warrant, you'll uncuff my friend there and put down your weapon."

Laura Miehns stared the monster down and said nothing. 

"If you're thinking of shooting me, I suppose you can," Susana added. "But this gun has a five-pound trigger pull, and I'd say there's about three on there now." Her eyes gleamed. "I _do _know my pistolcraft, Agent Miehns. If you shoot me, my last act will be to pull this trigger and take her with me." 

"You won't kill me," Lisa muttered from her spot on the floor. 

Susana's eyes did not waver off Agent Miehns, but her words were addressed to her cousin. 

"I'd prefer not to," she said, "but make no mistake, I'll kill you if the choice is that or go back to prison. Eight profilers are already dead. You would just be number nine. And you _are _the FBI's resident obsessive on me." Her voice was cold, cruel, and quite serious. A chill ran down Lisa's spine. Susana turned her attention back to Agent Miehns. 

"I know you've called backup, dear Agent, so unless you want to see Lisa die right here and right now, take the handcuffs off my colleague and put down your weapon," Susana said. Her tone was thin and deliberate. "Don't try to stall me, Agent Miehns, or you'll be cleaning Lisa's brains off this floor." 

Laura Miehns sighed deeply. Obeying this monster seemed inconceivable. Everything in her brain screamed for her not to do it. But if she didn't, Susana would kill Lisa before her very eyes. Her obligation to protect Lisa demanded that she do it. Once, Susana had gotten Lisa away from her; letting it happen again was just as inconceivable. _After this, _Laura Miehns thought, _I am going to place her ass in protective custody at Quantico with as many Marines and guards as I can possibly get, and there she will stay, no matter how much she doesn't like it, until Susana Alvarez is caught. Or maybe a military base in Alaska. Or Nevada. Anywhere where Susana won't go._

"And if I do what you want?" she asked, the words tasting like cinders in her mouth. 

Susana grinned, knowing victory was near. "I will…stay my hand." 

"Don't bullshit me with fancy talk," Laura hissed. 

"Fine. I won't kill her and I'll give her back to you just as she is now. Straight trade, Lisa for…my colleague. She'll be alive and unharmed." Susana pressed the muzzle a bit harder into the base of Lisa's skull. 

"Don't do it, Laura, she'll kill me anyway," Lisa said. 

Susana looked offended. "Lisa, when have you _ever_ known me to lie?" she asked. Laura Miehns was shocked: the killer actually seemed hurt by the comment. Susana's eyes flared as she looked over her opponent. 

"Time is running out, Agent Miehns," Susana said. "If I see anyone burst in that door behind you, my first act _will _be to shoot." Her mouth curved into a cruel smile. "Now…uncuff my colleague there and put down your weapon. You have ten seconds, Agent Miehns. Ten…nine…eight…," 

"Wait a minute," Laura snapped, galled by what she was about to do. She hated giving anything to criminals. But watching Susana kill Lisa was not something she was prepared to do. 

"Seven…six…five," Susana continued. 

"All right, all right," Laura said, and put her pistol on the floor and kicked it away. She reached for her pocket to take out her handcuff key. Bitterly, she unlocked Luke's cuffs and watched him stand. 

"Good," Susana said. She stood up herself and allowed her captive to stand. Luke favored her with a victorious glance. It _was _true. God looked after his servants. God had sent Susana to deliver him from the evildoers. Those who would stop his holy work. _Their _holy work. 

Luke crossed the kitchen to stand by his bride to be. He was vaguely troubled by the fact that she had saved him. It was supposed to be the other way around. But what better proof of her loyalty could he ask for? 

"Now give me Lisa," Laura Miehns demanded. 

"All in good time, Agent," Susana smiled, and backed up with her captive towards a set of sliding glass doors set into the hallway of Don Quincy's kitchen. Lisa looked sick as her cousin dragged her backwards. Laura followed slowly as Susana would allow, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Luke opened the sliding glass doors and glanced at Susana. 

When it happened, it happened quickly. One moment Susana held her captive, gun pointed at Laura Miehns from around Lisa's side. Then she stepped quickly backwards, put both hands on Lisa's back, and shifted her weight neatly. As easily as she had once thrown an FBI agent named Tony Braxton out of a Chicago elevator years ago, Susana propelled her cousin headlong towards Laura Miehns. 

"_Move," _she said. 

Luke needed no urging; he disappeared pell-mell into the dark night of Quincy's deck. His boots thundered on the wood for a few seconds. Silence reigned as he made the lawn and ran on the silent grass. Susana was after him a moment later. 

Laura Miehns caught Lisa without knocking either of them over. She took a moment to look the smaller woman over. She seemed okay. But humiliated anger ruled her face. Lisa's lips twisted in fury as she realized what had happened. 

"Goddammit," Lisa hissed. "God DAM it! You let her go." 

"Starling, she'd have killed you," Laura said. "We'll get her. Just calm down. Turn around, I'll get you out of those." 

She had a moment to realize just how humiliated and angry Lisa must be. Handcuffed with her own cuffs and held as a hostage. She was tempted to leave them on her until she calmed down, but that would be simply cruel after what she had just been through. 

Laura Miehns unlocked the handcuffs on Lisa Starling's wrists and unknowingly released a whirling dervish. With strength much like her cousin's, born of her rage, Lisa Starling sprinted across the room the moment the cuffs opened. She grabbed up Miehn's dropped pistol and blew past her out the door, legs pumping with rage-fueled adrenalin. 

_What the hell? _Laura Miehns thought. After only a second to wonder at the smaller woman's speed, she took off in pursuit. Lisa had not gone far. 

Out on the deck, it took a moment for Lisa's eyes to adjust to the night. She raised the pistol and pointed it at the two figures fleeing into the next yard. The pistol barked once. A male scream of pain floated back through the night, and the taller figure folded and fell to the ground.

Lisa fully expected Susana to keep running, and so she led her cousin just a bit with the pistol. When Susana cut on her heel and turned back, she was surprised. She watched Susana grab up her accomplice and throw him over her back in a fireman's carry. 

_Damn, she **is **strong, _Lisa Starling thought. But she was also a big fat target now, clearly outlined in the moonlight. And with the body over her shoulders, she couldn't reach for her gun. Lisa aimed the pistol as she'd been taught at the FBI, aiming center of mass, right where Susana Alvarez Lecter's heart triphammered away in her chest. For just a moment, the two women's eyes met. 

Should she shoot? Should she not? Susana had killed people she worked with and liked, and had threatened her life not once but twice. Lisa needed no further illustration as to how dangerous her cousin could be. But she was also effectively unarmed. Bizarrely, shooting Susana would be punishing her for actually caring for her accomplice. 

FBI rules demanded a warning shot. Lisa did not think it would be effective. Moreover, she didn't want to. She had one shot, here and now. 

Lisa Starling's eyes hardened and her finger began to take up slack on the trigger. 


	22. Exit Strategy

Lisa Starling leaned her head against the concrete wall and sighed. She was tired. It had been a hell of a long night, and she didn't know when this would be over and she could get some sleep. The room was tiny, only a scarred table and a few chairs in the room. She was alone, for the time being. The grilling was finally over while the people holding her had done a few more tests and checked on a few things. 

When backup had finally arrived at Don Quincy's home, she'd expected them to be nervous. She had put down the gun when they told her to. She had identified herself, shown her ID, and given her FBI ID number. None of it had been worth anything. She hadn't expected to be handcuffed and brought to the Alexandria Detention Center, but here she was. They hadn't brought her up to the cellblock yet. That was a good sign, she supposed. They _had _photographed her and taken her fingerprints. It seemed so bizarre, but it was real: they needed to prove that she was, in fact, Agent Lisa Starling of the FBI. 

Word of Susana's deeds had trickled back to here, as FBI agents had grilled her on what she had done. How strange, to be the suspect. Did they _really _think that Lisa Starling – Lisa Starling, whose worst crime before joining the FBI had been doing fifty in a thirty-five zone – had murdered four of her fellow agents in cold blood? Did her prior service to the FBI mean nothing? Were they going to formally arrest her for murder? 

The worst part was easily the waiting. They had to be interrogating Laura Miehns, and she would corroborate Lisa's alibi. They had to know – somehow – that Susana had committed this crime and not Lisa. But still, visions of being jailed and tried for Susana's crimes danced through her head. She could picture the district attorney even now: _Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Lisa Starling has claimed that her cousin committed these crimes. I ask you to look at the evidence. The attacker used Lisa Starling's name and ID number. The attacker displayed valid FBI credentials according to all the officers who saw it. Valid FBI credentials, ladies and gentlemen, issued in the name of Lisa Starling. I ask you, can you really believe her story that she was watching "Sleepless in Seattle" and boozing it up with a bottle of cheap California wine? _

Her ID. That didn't make any damn sense. She had her ID. Susana never had the chance to get her hands on it. ID's had been found for all the previous Black Wednesday murders, so that wasn't it either. Lisa took out the flat black leather case and stared at it. 

__

How the hell did you manage this, Susana? she thought. Then she had it. Susana had taken her clothes off back at Graham's. But then how had she gotten it back to her? The first time she could remember seeing it from Graham's was in the hospital. Had Susana gotten to her in the hospital? No, she couldn't have. There had been a guard on her door. Had Susana snuck into the room while she was in the lounge waiting for Graham? The thought sent chills down her spine. But Susana hadn't killed her. Performed involuntary plastic surgery on her, yes. Humiliated her and held her hostage, yes. But Susana had continued to scruple at killing her cousin. 

The door opened and two male FBI agents entered. They looked at her calmly, but not sympathetically. Laura Miehns and Kelly McNeely were with them. One of them identified himself and his comrade and Lisa promptly forgot their names. 

"Special Agent Starling," he said. Lisa noted the restoration of her title and hoped it was a good sign. "Just thought you might want to know. We did find a gun in the yard. Ballistics tests just came back on it. " 

"And?" Lisa asked, more irritably than she intended. 

"The gun in the yard matches up positively to the one taken from Lieutenant Kelly McNeely," he said. "Serial number matches, and the ballistics match. No doubt about it. Susana Alvarez Lecter dropped that gun in that yard." Lt. McNeely looked slightly chagrined to hear of the discovery of her weapon.

Lisa let out a long sigh of relief. "So can I go home now?" 

The agent shook his head. Laura Miehns answered, as if it was bad news. 

"No, not for a while," she said. "As of now, all Behavioral Science personnel are being transported to Quantico, where we have protective custody arrangements set up." 

__

Protective custody. A pretty euphemism for "We can't catch who's doing it, so we're going to lock you up so they can't get you." And just a shred too late at this point. Eight out of twelve profilers were dead. If Susana had meant to strike a blow against Behavioral Sciences, she had succeeded. All that expertise, the product of God knew how many years of profiling experience, all gone. It would take years to put back together what Susana had set asunder. 

"So I'm being locked up," Lisa said bitterly.

Laura shook her head. "Don't get whiny on me, Starling. It's for your own protection. There's a dangerous killer out there. Be glad they're not charging you with murder and sticking you here." 

Hearing the nightmare she had envisioned so many times over the past few hours put into words washed a wave of fear over her. 

"They can't _do _that," Lisa said vehemently. "They just found Susana's gun." 

Laura shrugged. "They could charge you and then drop the charges once this is over. Look, you're going to Quantico and you're going to stay there. We can keep you safe there. The Marines are on board, nobody gets in who isn't supposed to be there. You'll be safe and it'll be more comfortable than here."

Realizing that she was helpless to change the situation, Lisa sighed. "All right," she said finally. 

Lt. McNeely stepped forward and offered Lisa a cardboard box. Lisa looked curiously at it. 

"Susana's things," McNeely explained. "You're the only one I can find for a next of kin." 

Lisa glanced down into the sad little box of what her cousin had been allowed to possess while in jail. It wasn't much. Legal papers, five tattered paperback books, a small electronic typewriter, two felt-tip pens, a few fashion magazines with the staples removed, some candy from the commissary, and the radio Lisa had given her. For just a moment, Lisa could sympathize with her cousin's desire to escape from prison. Must have been pretty rough, going from all that ritz and glitz to only being allowed to have a boxful of stuff. 

She took the box and nodded. Laura Miehns rose and took Lisa from the small room. Occasional cries and noises could be heard from the cellblocks not far away. Lisa paid it little heed, concentrating on the past. Even as she got into the big unmarked Crown Victoria parked in the visitors parking lot, her mind was focused on the deck, when she had stared Susana Alvarez Lecter down. Susana's life in her hands, at her whim. As they drove, even as they pulled into the FBI facility at Quantico, already surrounded by FBI and Marines, one thought echoed through Lisa Starling's mind.

__

I should have shot. I should have shot. 

…

Dawn was breaking, the first streaks of sunlight crossing the sky. Susana Alvarez Lecter was exhausted. She had spent most of the night keeping an eye on Luke. He was stable, but he would be down for a while. Lisa's bullet had hit him in the back and plowed forward to his intestines. Fortunately, pulling bullets out of people was something Susana was experienced with. She had done the work in the hotel room, and the bloody sheets were piled up now in the corner. 

It wasn't the best conditions to work under, but Susana had dealt with it as best she could. She had painkillers and sedatives so that he wasn't suffering and antibiotics to deal with infection. For the time being, he wasn't going to be killing anyone else, FBI or not. And Susana was extremely loath to try and go after the remaining profilers herself. After three successful attacks on Behavioral Sciences, even the FBI would be bright enough to take the rest and put them under lock and key at Quantico. Or maybe some military base in Nevada or Utah. Anywhere they could protect them from Susana's wrath. 

Luke was going to need more medical care than she was able to render in a hotel room. That was clear enough. He'd need some additional surgery in the future. She'd gotten the bullet out and stopped the bleeding. He was stable, and for now that was the best she could do.

But Susana's supreme self-confidence did not translate to foolhardiness. The forged ID had worked for the guards at the homes of the profilers, but it wouldn't work twice. The profilers who were left would be held at Quantico, not in their homes. Not even the FBI could fail to learn a lesson so painfully taught. There was no way Susana, a fugitive from federal justice, was knowingly setting foot on a heavily armed Marine base. Her ally was wounded and her enemy was finally realizing just how much damage she could do and drawing itself in to the appropriate defensive position. 

Up until now, Susana had won handily at every turn. Her escape from Alexandria had been helped along by a large measure of dumb luck, but she had been trying to formulate a plan even then. But her escape had gone without a hitch, as had her flight, her return, and the strikes against Behavioral Sciences. It would have been nice to go twelve for twelve, but facts were facts. Her only ally was wounded. The FBI would probably have his name, if they didn't already. And finally, the FBI was preparing to treat her as a real enemy, capable of inflicting great harm on them. The rules of the game were changing, and not in her favor. If she stayed, she would end up captured – losing, in other words. And Susana knew perfectly well that if you can't win the game, you can either lose, or you can change the rules.

So Susana was willing to get out now. She'd done what she set out to do – cripple Behavioral Sciences so that they could not track her. Her darker nature had suggested killing Luke herself, but part of her rebelled at that. Luke had helped her when she was weak. She would return the favor for him. At the least, she wouldn't owe him anything. She wasn't sure what to do next with him – he wanted marriage, that was clear enough. Susana was not sure on that. She liked him, but that didn't mean she wanted to spend her life with him. But that could be decided when Luke was free, up and running, and able to take care of himself. 

She was annoyed with herself for having lost the gun, even though circumstances had changed enough that it did not matter. She would have made the same moves even if she had it still. But it was OK, ultimately; guns were easy to get. Especially for a woman who knew a great deal about killing police officers. And Lisa shooting Luke, now _there _was a surprise. Perhaps there was more of the killer in her than Susana had thought. She'd actually thought for a moment that Lisa might shoot her too. She had looked angry enough. But after a moment, Lisa's hand had dropped, and Susana had fled back to the car, Luke's weight heavy across her shoulders.

She glanced over at him, spread across the seat of the limousine. She believed that he would be able to walk for the short distance he would have to once they arrived at their destination. She had made plans to accommodate his infirmity. Too bad he was only semi-conscious, she thought. He would have appreciated this. It would have been a treat for him. 

She leaned back against the leather seat and thought of her prior escape from custody, when her mother had broken her out of Wheeling Hospital all those years ago. Remembering her mother was bittersweet, but she had to smile. Now here she was, adopting her mother's role. 

She forced herself to pay attention to the letter she was writing. Her Cross pen scratched across the fine vellum she had chosen. As the miles slipped away in the leather-scented grandeur of the limousine, she finally finished it and folded it into an envelope. She took a small stick of wax and a cigarette lighter from her purse. She watched the red wax drip like blood onto the envelope, and carefully stamped a metal seal into the hot, viscous substance. On a whim, she dropped another dime-sized drop just below the seal and pressed her finger carefully into it. She was determined to make this as easy as possible for them. Then she put it into another envelope, addressed to the remailing service, and sealed that.

The privacy divider was up, separating the driver from them. She pressed a button and lowered it. The driver betrayed not the slightest surprise at seeing her face appear. That was good. She preferred professionalism in her servants. 

"Can you stop at a mailbox, please?" she asked the driver. 

"Certainly, ma'am," he said in a Hispanic accent. 

"_Antes de que llegamos,_" she said. The driver grinned. For a moment, Susana wondered about that tactic: hiding in the Hispanic areas of town. She wondered if it would have worked or not. It didn't matter anymore. 

There was a mailbox on the corner and the driver politely pulled over for her. To open the door and drop the letter into the maw of the blue box took only a moment. Their final destination lay ahead. The section of the airport devoted to small jets was busier than she would have expected, but this _was_ Washington, DC. Many people needed to charter jets at a moment's notice. On the other hand, it gave her some needed protective cover. 

The limousine was able to pull in and let them off right near the plane. Susana was pleased. This was clearly the only way to travel. She had no gun – she'd dropped it at Quincy's, once Lisa had shot Luke. Would've made a nice trophy. Well, she had McNeely's baton, uniform, and spray, packed away in her suitcase next to the clothes she had bought in Toronto. 

She helped Luke from the limousine. He was in a soupy state of semiconsciousness, staggering as he walked. She'd given him enough morphine so that he wasn't in pain, which was good. Getting him up the stairs was difficult, but not that hard. 

"Dr. Alvardo," the pilot greeted her. "Welcome. They'll just stow your luggage and I'll notify the tower. We should be airborne in about ten minutes." 

"Thank you," she said, and looked around the jet. It was quite sumptuous. In place of the midget-sized seats that commercial aircraft offered their passengers, there were two couches scattered about the cabin. The back part of the cabin had been finished off into a bedroom, and it was here that Susana steered her wounded accomplice. The bed was a full-size, big enough for him to be comfortable. She got him on the bed and set up his IV stand again, tying it to the bedpost so that it wouldn't roll away when the plane took off. Another shot of morphine and pentothal ensured that he would sleep until the plane was in the air. 

It hadn't been easy to charter a plane on such short notice, but Susana had the advantage of being extremely rich, and like most rich people she was able to find those who would cater to her wants for a price. The pilot had been most agreeable, even to the point of agreeing to divert to a different airport when she told him to. The flight manifest stated that it was heading to El Paso, Texas. In fact, both she and the pilot knew that the plane would overshoot that mark and land in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, where the FBI did not have jurisdiction. From there, they would hop down the continent to Buenos Aires. After that, Susana didn't care a bit what the pilot did – he was being amply compensated for his trouble. 

She accepted a cup of coffee from the stewardess and asked if she had time to make a quick cell-phone call. The stewardess assured her that it would be fine: the captain was contacting the tower. It would be a risk, but an acceptable one: by the time the FBI was able to definitively tie down the cell phone location, she would be several states away. 

She dialed a number from memory. The phone rang several times. Susana wondered if it was possibly too early, or if perhaps Lisa had her own cell phone off. 

Then, finally, a voice fuzzy with sleep answered. "Mmmf…Starling." 

"Cousin Lisa," Susana said. "How are you? I was wondering if perhaps I'd done my job too well, and that you were in jail awaiting trial. Which is a miserable experience, I can tell you." 

"Susana?" The sleep was brushed quickly from Lisa Starling's voice. "Susana, I don't know what the hell you're thinking, but we'll get you for this. I swear to God." 

Susana chuckled. Lisa could be so fixated sometimes. 

"I doubt that," Susana said calmly. "I do want to offer you congratulations, though. You've saved the rest of the profilers. You are indeed a worthy adversary."

"We're all in protective custody, Susana," Lisa returned. "You couldn't get us even if you wanted to. But thank you. I appreciate that." 

"I don't need to, actually," Susana said. "You know as well as I do that your department is crippled. It'll be years before you're able to track me: you'll be too busy breaking in replacements. But you should have realized that when you set this in motion. You and the rest of your gang." Her tone changed, becoming bitter. "Frankly, you should be ashamed to call yourself law enforcement. You know, Lisa, I could have expected this from the rest of the FBI. But I thought _you_ had some principles." 

"Huh?" Lisa sounded puzzled and tired. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You'll see," Susana said. "Sleep well, Lisa, I apologize for disturbing your sleep. Goodbye." 

Susana pressed END and put the phone back in her purse. The coffee was good, but not enough to overcome her exhaustion. She'd stayed up all night with Luke, monitoring him for signs of internal bleeding. The plane taxied to the runway and waited for perhaps twenty minutes. Susana looked out the window and fidgeted. What if she'd underestimated the FBI? What if they got the call traced down? She had only the Harpy, which would not be adequate to take down a task force. 

Then again, she admitted, they hadn't been able to protect two-thirds of their Behavioral Science unit from her. But still, she was unpleasantly nervous. The captain buzzed back to tell her they were approved for takeoff. Then finally, the small jet leaped gracefully into the sky, curving away from Washington, DC and northern Virginia. Susana eyed it carefully, this place where she had lived peacefully and anonymously for three years, where she had been arrested and incarcerated, where she had found someone of her own, and where she had worked a guerilla campaign against the FBI's Behavioral Sciences unit. High in the air, she looked for and found Quantico, the Marine base in which the FBI Academy and Behavioral Sciences stood. She stared at the buildings. From up here, they looked like a child's plaything. She wondered which one Lisa was in. 

She went back and checked on Luke. He was still out cold. That was for the best. Susana was exhausted herself, and the bed looked inviting. Luke was bizarrely conservative about doing anything before marriage – that was an annoying part of his religious dogma – but presumably he wouldn't care if she just laid down next to him. Besides, he wouldn't wake up until they were out of the country. 

She asked the stewardess to please wake her up once they had reached Texas. Then she lay down on the bed next to him, two exhausted killers curled up against each other like small children. The jet's engines provided a comforting rumble. Susana Alvarez Lecter fell asleep as the plane passed over Virginia. 

…

Lisa Starling was tired, but could not go back to sleep. She glanced around the small, dark room she had been given. She believed it had been an office shortly before. The cot they had brought in for her was small and uncomfortable. The bed that her cousin was sleeping on at 30,000 feet would have been much more to her liking. She called down to the people at Communications and told them she had received a phone call from Susana and to please run a trace and see what they could find.

Susana's last words to her rang in her ears. Was it simply an attempt to mock? Lisa didn't think so. Never before had Susana ever disparaged Lisa's own principles. It wasn't her style. She'd always known that it was Lisa's job to track her down and bring her to justice. And where was this coming from? Was _that _what had triggered Black Wednesday? Had Susana killed so many because she thought she was being treated unfairly? Could it be that ridiculously simple? 

Lisa accepted the fact that she would not get back to sleep and asked the Marine in the hallway if she could head down to the mess and get something to eat. This was allowed, so she went up the stairs to the mess and got herself a bowl of cereal, some coffee, and some juice. It helped her think. 

Susana wasn't delusional, she could discard that off the bat. Although it was possible that the strict security they'd kept her under had had some effect on her mind – any prisoner confined under heavy security like that began to experience some psychotic decompensation. But Lisa thought that would've had little effect on her mind – it had only been two months, and Susana had been able to plan an escape even with the pain and discomfort of appendicitis. She wasn't crazy. 

What the hell did she mean? Had the FBI done something they shouldn't have? Lisa could see that more easily than she would admit. The FBI despised Susana Alvarez Lecter: maybe someone, somewhere had done something they shouldn't have. But Susana had expressed disapproval of _her, _personally. And what the hell had Lisa done? It wasn't that she had caught Susana: Susana understood that as part of the game. Or at least she had in the past. Or was Susana referring to the fact that she was facing the death penalty? No, that wasn't it. That had gotten through to Susana – there was no doubt that would scare anyone – but Susana knew that Lisa had nothing to do with that end of things. That was the US District Attorney's call, not the FBI's. She hadn't done anything legal that she shouldn't have: Susana's attorneys had never contacted her. She racked her brain in the almost empty-cafeteria, but for the life of her she could not remember anything she'd done that would be unethical or illegal.

Lisa sat in the cold plastic chair and held the Styrofoam cup of tasteless coffee to her lips. There was a vague sense of misgiving forming in the back of her mind. She believed Susana when she said she was leaving. There would be no more killings. No, something else was up here. Susana thought the FBI and herself guilty of some sort of dishonesty, or some ethical lapse. The disturbing thing was that Lisa Starling couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, her cousin was right. 


	23. Hidden Evil

Buenos Aires was a vast, teeming city. Noise and traffic were as endemic to it as Boston or Washington, DC, two other cities that Susana Alvarez Lecter had lived in. But here was different. It was the toniest area of the city, where the very rich lived and played. The Alvarez mansion hovered next to others, set well back on its lot. Susana had spent her girlhood here, raised by loving parents. Here she had known safety. Here was home. 

The topmost floor of the mansion was dark and quiet. Susana had deliberately dimmed the lights and ordered the servants to stay out unless she told them to be there. The guest room had been made into a sickroom of sorts, with an IV stand and Susana's medical equipment. The province of Buenos Aires had been pleased to issue her a medical license, and it was no more difficult for her to obtain what she needed to care for Luke than buying soap would have been. Her family's connections and money meant that it would be simple to get Luke whatever medical treatment Susana could not provide. But that was for later.

The servants were curious about the young man Susana had brought home. He did not appear to speak Spanish. They noted the bandages, the limping manner in which he walked. But the iron discipline Dr. Lecter had instilled in them so many years ago held true; they did not ask Miss Susana what he was doing there, they merely traded knowing glances and wondered. 

Luke Taylor lay in the bed, his eyes growing less confused as time went on. Susana was monitoring his condition with the greatest of care. When his eyes finally swam into focus and met hers, she smiled tiredly. 

"Where am I?" he asked. 

"My home," Susana said gently. "In Buenos Aires." 

Luke seemed surprised, but that was to be expected. One was usually disoriented and confused to learn that one has been taken five thousand miles from one's point of origin while one was asleep. All things considered, Susana thought, he took it rather well. 

"What happened?" he asked and blinked at her owlishly. "My stomach…it hurts." 

"You were shot," Susana said simply. "I got the bullet out and got you down here. You'll probably need surgery. But I can handle that." 

Luke took that in. Argentina. The Promised Land. He had been taken early. He had not even been required to help her take out all the witches of the dark ones. He knew what had happened. It was the wavesheaf, those worthy souls promoted to heaven even before the 144,000 faithful the Scriptures had spoken of. The true heretics, who had martyred so many that their own path to heaven was assured.

_I am…delivered. Delivered from evil, _Luke Taylor thought. Truly, he had been rewarded. For was Susana not here, by him, caring for him in his hour of need? Was this not proof positive that he was chosen? He tugged up the hem of the loose T shirt Susana had put on him and examined his stomach. A bandage covered his sutures. Sutures she had put there. It hurt, but he was quite able to tolerate the pain. 

He tried to sit up. Susana put a hand on his arm. She looked at him with concern. 

"Stay down," she urged. "You need to rest." 

Luke nodded and lay back. He did not like how weak and dependent he felt. Then it occurred to him that this must be how Susana had felt that first night. Weakened and worried, wondering if the authorities were coming…but warm and safe. It was hardly something to deny. 

"What about the dark ones?" he asked. 

Susana shrugged. "Thousands of miles away," she said indifferently. "They won't know we're here. We switched planes in Nicaragua, then again in Brazil, then again in Montevideo. And here…this is my turf, not theirs." She grinned. "We didn't land in Buenos Aires. We landed in a little border town and then chartered another flight here." She chuckled. "It's all right, Luke. Don't worry about the authorities."

"But…they'll learn we're here, and then all they have to do is get us," Luke said. 

Susana snorted. "You give them too much credit," she said. "They have to know we're here before they can even ask for our extradition. And trust me, Luke…the Argentine authorities will find a million reasons to blow them off." Her head tilted and she adopted a pedantic air. 

"They don't want me to leave," she explained. "Even in the worst case, they wouldn't send me north unless the US dropped their demands for my death. And it's far from the worst case. You see, Luke, the Argentine government has never been very good with money. Fortunately, my father was." She smiled sadly, her eyes misted with memory. 

Luke seemed not to get it. Susana decided to spell it out for him; he wasn't totally recovered yet. 

"A few million invested years ago in Argentine bonds, denominated in US dollars, for one." Susana explained. "If they sent me north, I'd have to cash in those bonds to pay for my legal defense. And they know that. So it's either try and come up with several million in US dollars that they simply don't have, or shrug their shoulders at the FBI and say, 'Well, she's not here, if she shows up we'll arrest her', and play innocent, and then I stay free and they don't have to pay up. Which do you think they'll do?" She smiled. "And there are other, smaller things, but they add up. Investments in local businesses and factories. A lot of Argentines work for me and don't realize it. Plus, the Alvarez family has always been generous sponsors to the police benevolent funds…the legal associations…the charities and agencies that help out those who toil in the legal system." She smiled. "Besides, I can tie up the legal system in knots, if I absolutely have to. I can afford the best attorneys, and I can afford to drag things out. And the US government was so hasty to bring me to trial that they forgot a few things, each of which I can pick over in court to my heart's content. This country didn't extradite Alberto Astiz, they won't extradite me either." She shook her head slowly. Luke did not know who Alberto Astiz was, but decided not to ask. Perhaps he was a heretic, too. "Don't worry about the authorities, Luke. They don't even know you're here. I'll need to take some ID photos later. But that can wait." 

She gave him another shot and then turned to leave. Luke saw exhaustion in her step and felt vaguely guilty. Part of him would always have difficulty grasping the idea that a woman would _want _to be with him, let alone exhaust herself for him. He lay back against the cool sheets and sighed, staring up at the baroque ceiling. 

…

Lisa Starling was bored. Her keepers were loath to allow their charges outside. There were books to read and TV to watch in the dayroom of the crude safe block they had created, but she could only take so much TV and was not in the mood to read. 

Two days of this and she was already ready to climb the walls. The worst part was not knowing. Not knowing where Susana was. Not knowing what came next. Information came down stingily to the prisoners of Behavioral Science. Lisa had thought they were going to let them at least get some work done, but she had turned out to be wrong on that. They had kept them all in the same little block for the first few days. Morale was low amongst the survivors of Behavioral Science, and Lisa was wondering if she could arrange a mutiny against their guards. At the least they could demand better food and some out time. Even prisoners got better treatment than this; they got to file habeus corpus writs. 

One of the HRT personnel was heading towards her, with envelopes in hand. Lisa sat up. 

"Mail call," the agent grinned, and handed Lisa the envelopes. Her mail. Joy. A few bills, and her checkbook was at home. It might as well be in Siberia. Laura Miehns had given into her more paranoid side and kept Lisa captive here in the basement at Quantico. 

Car payment. Mortgage. Some advertisements. And then a plain envelope made of fine creamy paper. Lisa stared at her name and address written carefully in girlish script and then turned it over. The envelope was not glued shut, but instead sealed with a bright red wax seal. 

Lisa's blood chilled as she saw it. She had studied Susana's history, and she knew perfectly well that Susana's grandfather – Hannibal Lecter's father – had been a count. The Lecter family had a coat of arms, and it was this coat of arms that stamped the seal of the envelope. Hannibal Lecter himself had never cared terribly much that he was born noble; his daughter gloried in it. She let out a swallow and took the letter out. She knew that she ought to go to Forensics with it, but she had to see what Susana had written. Carefully, with the tail of her shirt covering her fingers, she slid the fine vellum sheets from the envelope and scanned the letter. 

_Dear Lisa, _

By now, you and the rest of the survivors of Behavioral Science are doubtlessly holed up in protective custody in Quantico, or perhaps some military base farther away where they believe I will not go. I must congratulate your superiors in the FBI – they have finally realized just how much damage I can do, even if they have locked the barn door after the horses have been murdered. Now I'm sure that as you examined the crime-scene photographs, as you attended the funerals, you looked up to the sky and asked yourself why. Why, why, why, whyever did this happen to such nice people? 

I shall answer that question for you, dear Lisa, as I know it burns on your mind. 

But first, I know you will bring this letter to your superiors in the FBI and the Department of Justice, so I should like to address them first. Perhaps they'll catch this letter before you see it, but I trust they will let you see it – it is after all addressed to you. Whichever it is, I must say this to the FBI and to the U.S. District Attorney who intended to prosecute me. Thank you, gentlemen. I'm sure you're surprised to hear that, but I do thank you. I thank you for seeking the death penalty against me, and for the overly harsh security regime you imposed on me while I was incarcerated. While I was in your power, it worked to your advantage. Now that I am free, it works to my favor. In the unlikely event I am ever apprehended again, it ensures that most civilized countries will be loath to return me to your clutches. An extradition hearing will be a leisurely affair, giving me plenty of time in which to plan my escape and remain free. 

Now Lisa, I'm sure it galls you to hear it, but in your heart you know it is true. You might like to think of this as good versus evil – you, the good, tracking down me, the evil, and bringing me to face justice. But this was hardly how it was, and frankly, Lisa, your concept of good and evil is rather skewed. 

You would agree, I think, that someone whose life is threatened by others has the right to kill in self-defense. According to your own records, you have, occasionally, killed yourself. Did that feel good, Lisa? Is that where this bloodlust started? I assure you, from the point of view of the person being threatened, it makes no difference whether or not the people threatening your life carry around little plastic cards identifying themselves as agents of the FBI and employees of the Department of Justice. Frankly, I am surprised you don't have more problems in the various death rows that your country possesses. What sort of skewed insanity is it that makes you think someone will simply hang their head and allow you to kill them without so much as a peep? 

But wait, I hear you say, it is different, a fair trial, judges, and all that nonsense. And nonsense it was, Lisa, at least in my case. Allow me to acquaint you with the oath you took when you first trotted across a stage and accepted your very first FBI credentials: to protect and defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. I suppose I'm sort of both. But in that very law you swore to protect, I will remind you, there are limits placed upon your own behaviors and actions. 

Is a USDA entitled to file charges that he knows to be false?

Does the FBI have the right to lie in court? 

Does the FBI have the right to withhold evidence that it does not wish to hand over? 

You know the answers already, do you not? 

The reason this affair went the way it did was because your side failed to realize what it was. It was not law enforcement, Lisa; the FBI's own actions negated that. Your side intended to kill me by fair means or foul. But rather than dirty your hands, you tried to do it in court, where someone else would take care of the details of snuffing out my life. Then when I escaped, it was only the towering arrogance of the FBI to assume that I would not or could not strike back. You assumed this was law enforcement, that I would flee, leaving the full strength of your department to pursue me. Law enforcement? This ceased to be law enforcement the moment the FBI knowingly denied its own duty. This was war, and you did not realize it until it was too late. You may call it murder, Lisa, but let us face the facts. If your agency is trying to kill me, Lisa, I have the right to act in self-defense. And so I did. 

Why, you have doubtlessly cried. And there is your answer. I had given up killing, Lisa, I was settled into a comfortable life and was working. Left alone, I should have never harmed another soul. And even now, I've saved more people than I've killed. You may blame me, but you are more complicit than you think. Had you left me alone and let bygones be bygones, Will Graham and eight of your profilers would be alive today. I came out of retirement to defend my own life and my own freedom. 

I'm sure you think it awfully hypocritical of me, a killer in my own right, to protest my own killing. Nothing is further from the truth, Lisa. If one of my victims had the strength or inner fortitude to kill me, then so be it – too bad for me. So far, they have been sheep, and done what I wanted, or those who have fought did not win. But to expect me not to fight back – to expect that I would hang my head and be a good little lamb to the slaughter– that is arrogant and stupid, and it is a lesson that you've learned to your bitter sorrow. 

I am leaving now, Lisa, I will not be back to the United States again for a while. And trust me, if I want to return, I shall. I did notice before I left that I have followed my father to the prestigious ranks of the Ten Most-Wanted List. I have heard that there are father-son combinations, but I believe that he and I constitute the only father-daughter combination extant. Dean's list at Harvard Med School and FBI's Ten-Most Wanted list – whatever I do, I end up at the top. 

By the way, I did notice your shrine to me in the second bedroom of your rather dull condominium. Quite the obsessive, are you not? Are you not, in a way, pleased that I am free? After all, Lisa Starling, your knowledge of me is only valuable when I am at large. I shall send you something to finish it off, something in the family for a bit of time. My mother possessed an add-a-bead necklace. Apparently this was popular in the years before our birth. It has little value other than sentimental. You see, when they first met, Papa told her to get some loose, drilled tiger eyes and string them alternately with the beads. This would be more tasteful than the norm. I wore this briefly as a teenager, and so I will send it along to you to help complete your collection. 

I do owe you congratulations as a worthy adversary, if for only this – your bullet did more to protect the few remaining profilers than all the bored, unprofessional guards of the HRT and local police forces. They slowed me down not a whit. Your shooting my accomplice has caused me to declare my job done here, and so I have left. He is not dead, however, but he'll need some more medical care. Excellent work, Lisa, although I can repair it. It'll be painful and lengthy though. Does that make you feel better? After all, you have your own painful and lengthy repairs to your department to make. And that makes me feel better.

I wish you well, Lisa, and I can even forgive your own ethical lapse against me. You are, after all, all too human. And it is only natural that you go along with your gang – standing up for what is right even when it applies to the opponent is hard indeed. Now I'm sure you are itching to take those handcuffs off your wall (which I would suggest anyway, Lisa; men will think you're a pervert) and snap them onto my wrists. You can forget that, my dear cousin. But I promise you this, and you know I do not lie. You will see my face again. 

Susana Alvarez Lecter, MD 

The letter proved to be Lisa's ticket out of protective custody. Showing it to the guards got her taken out of the basement and up into a meeting room. They wanted her take on the letter. The evidence people were mad that she had taken the letter out, but Lisa did not really care. She was more troubled by the accusations Susana had leveled. And she still didn't have the faintest idea how she figured into it. No matter how she racked her brain, she could not remember having done anything – or not done something she was supposed to – that Susana might be referring to. 

A few hours later, Lisa Starling was sitting at a conference table on the upper levels of Quantico. She felt a mean sort of satisfaction, almost as if she had gotten out of jail. That wasn't too far off from what had actually transpired. Behavioral Science personnel were under heavy guard. 

She glanced around the table at the people around her. At the head of the table was John Morton, the new head of Behavioral Sciences. He'd been around for about ten years. Lisa had a passing acquaintance with him but did not know him well. Aaron Kilbourne, the US District Attorney who had been assigned to prosecute Susana. A few people from the evidence and legal departments. The other people at the meeting she did not recognize. A copy of the letter was up on an overhead projector.

"So, Agent Starling," Morton said, "tell us what you think of the letter." 

Lisa thought for a long moment before answering. "Well," she began, "on the surface, it's a letter to me, explaining her actions. She, um, she isn't crazy, not any way we recognize someone as being crazy. This could be a paranoid delusion, but she's showed no signs of anything like that -- she was able to plan and pull off the murders of eight Behavioral Science personnel, she's not mentally ill. The fingerprint on the envelope – she wanted to be sure we knew who it came from. That was deliberate." 

"She brags that we're not going to get her back even if she is arrested again, and on that she's probably right, at least as long as we keep the death penalty. My guess is that she's going back home to Argentina, and our extradition treaty with them says that they can refuse to send her back as long as she's facing death. We'd have to drop that demand before we got her, but that's your call, Mr. Kilbourne."

She looked at Kilbourne steadily. "She feels that the FBI wronged her somehow, that's pretty obvious. In the phone call she was vague about it and hung up. That's probably because she'd either already sent the letter or was writing it. She's more specific here. She says the FBI withheld evidence and lied in court on her. She also singles out the US District Attorney for filing charges he knew were false." She gave Kilbourne a direct look. "I think it's a little late in the game for pointing fingers, but I would like to ask you if you know what she means, Mr. Kilbourne." 

Kilbourne shrugged. "The 17 charges of murder, we know what those are about," he said calmly. "Those aren't bogus." 

Lisa had expected this. She nodded with resignation. Kilbourne's next words knocked the wind out of her.

__

"As far as the Mapp and…um, well, Starling charges….well, hell. What did you want me to do? I was stuck." He leaned forward and jabbed a finger in the direction of the evidence people. "Stuck because of _you _guys." 

Lisa's jaw dropped. Mapp? Her? What the hell? Thunderstruck, she could simply ask, "Mapp?" 

Kilbourne nodded. "I charged her with killing Mapp and trying to shoot you. Don't look at me like that, Starling, I had to. You guys down in the evidence labs were jerking me around." 

Lisa closed her mouth. Opened it again. Swallowed. 

"You charged her with Mapp and shooting me?" she asked again. Her voice sounded more in control to her. "But…but…we know Mapp shot me. Forensics proved that." 

Kilbourne sighed. "Don't get all Girl Scout on me, Starling. I never would have been in the position of having to do it if you FBI guys had been on top of your game. _You _guys down in evidence were the ones who were jerking us around on the evidence." One of the evidence people looked consternated but said nothing. 

Lisa cleared her throat. "What do you mean, jerking you around on the evidence?" 

He seemed slightly exasperated. "All right, fine. Her attorneys put in a request for the tapes from the factory bust, all the reports, everything. You fine law enforcement people here didn't want to give it to them. They did everything they could to stonewall them. Now I know they don't require that FBI agents be lawyers anymore, so I'll clue you into a little piece of criminal law. The government _has to _turn over evidence, be it exculpatory or not. You _can't _say no. It doesn't matter whether or not you want to hand it over, you _have _to." He speared the FBI personnel with him with an angry glance. 

"Almost two months of this fun game. FBI agents swore in court that they didn't have any tapes, any reports, that you just packed up the dead agents and went home. Did you morons think the judge was going to believe that? I delayed and danced and did everything I could do. Finally the judge said that was it – the FBI had a week to turn over the evidence or he was declaring a mistrial, tossing out the charges, and sending her home. We could've tried deporting her, but that wouldn't have worked, cause she would've voluntarily departed the country and vanished like smoke." He glared around the room angrily. "I had to do something, Starling. Unless you wanted her on the street. So I filed the charges and hoped for the best. And I felt like _shit _" 

Lisa Starling sat there, stunned. Half the mystery solved right there. Dear God, Susana had been right. And while she could understand why Kilbourne had done what he had, but as it was, Susana _was _on the street, _had _vanished like smoke, and _had _voluntarily departed the country. And God knew how many people had died at her hands. To add to the fun, Susana thought Lisa personally responsible. It made perfect sense; Susana had doubtlessly thought Lisa planned to testify against her, sit in the chair and state that she, Special Agent Lisa Starling, watched Susana Alvarez Lecter murder Ardelia Mapp and then attempt to murder her. 

_No, _she thought. _I wouldn't have. Never._

"So," she said, turning her attention to the evidence techs, "why didn't you give her attorneys what she wanted?" Better to get on track, any track, rather than sit in free-floating shock. 

The head of the FBI's evidence section shifted uncomfortably. "We had every intent of complying with the court's order," he said, and it was obvious that he was lying. "We had to try and restore the tapes. They were badly damaged in the explosion. All you can hear is five seconds of tape. Nothing from Team 1, only when the second and third teams found them. One of them says 'Get her, we gotta get her,' and then another voice says 'She won't leave her alive', and then it cuts off into static." 

Lisa Starling closed her eyes and thought. No wonder. Susana could have taken those tapes and then claimed that the FBI was trying to kill her. In that situation, her decision to blow up the building made perfect sense. Might sway a jury, might not. It would depend.

"Well, thank you, gentlemen," Lisa said slowly. "We've now given Susana Alvarez a ton of ammunition to fight extradition with. We may never see her behind American bars now. But we still have to try." She looked over at Morton. "I want to go to Argentina to look for her," she said directly. 

Morton shook his head. "No way," he said. "Why would she go there? She'll know we're looking for her there."

"She plays it conservative when she has to," Lisa riposted. "There, she's got money, connections, everything she needs to lay low for a while. And her accomplice is shot." 

"If he gets in her way, she'll kill him herself," Morton said. "And no way are _you _going to Argentina, Starling. You're a target." 

Lisa considered. Susana would probably kill her accomplice if the choices were going back to prison or killing him. That she could see. But Susana had scrupled at killing _her _twice now, preferring to shame her instead. Would she really kill an ally once he was no longer useful? Lisa thought not; Morton was thinking of Susana as pure evil, and that she was not. 

"She's had the opportunity to kill me twice," Lisa pointed out, not without pain. "She didn't. And I can find her down there. I know I can. I'm the best source of Lecter information we've got." 

"All the more reason to keep you here," Morton rejoined. "Let someone else do the collar, someone less at risk. The answer's no, Starling." 

She leaned forward in her chair. "But she'll only be in Argentina for a while," she implored. "As soon as her accomplice is back on his feet, boom, she's out of there, maybe with him, maybe not. And we'll be back at square one." 

Morton shook his head. "I'll put agents onto it," he said calmly. "We'll do what we can. But you're staying here, Starling. That's all there is to it."

Lisa sighed. "All right," she said, knowing that she wasn't going anywhere as long as they were keeping her here. 

But they got two breaks later that day: the pilot who had flown Susana to Nicaragua had been found. It had been easy; the FAA had flagged the plane the moment it went off its scheduled course to El Paso. As soon as the pilot landed, they had him, and he identified Susana as the woman whom he had flown. The second was that the fingerprint on the envelope, as well as the writing, was positively identified as that of Susana Alvarez Lecter. The need for protective custody was called off, and the profilers released to their homes. 

Lisa Starling sat that night in her home office, staring at the pictures of Susana on the walls and of the handcuffs mounted on the plaque. In her hands she held Susana's prison records from Alexandria. Sixty-two days Susana had spent in custody. A sentence more appropriate for minor theft or vandalism. It came out to about two or three days in jail for each victim, less if you added in the murders Susana had committed since her escape. And the odds of getting her back behind bars were much longer now than they had ever been. In the name of justice, the authorities had nobly shot themselves in the foot. 

Even catching Susana would be a long shot. It had taken them years to find Susana living right under their noses. She would not make the same mistake again. Lisa leaned back in her computer chair and sighed, thinking of Susana Alvarez Lecter free and having a good time as she made her way through the world, either working somewhere with excellent papers, or possibly simply kicking back and enjoying life, playing the wealthy heiress she actually was. 

Lisa sighed. She knew Susana would head for Argentina; if only for the sake of her accomplice. Argentina was her hidey hole. Canada might have been a choice, but Canada would be as hot for Susana as the US was, now that she had horribly mutilated a few of their citizens. And if Susana couldn't have the high life of Toronto anymore, she wouldn't want to go. On her own, Susana might have fled anywhere. South America, Lisa supposed, somewhere where Americans weren't particularly liked and rich women who spoke Spanish fluently were. But she wasn't. Unless her accomplice – and Lisa was almost positive it was Luke Taylor, who had been missing for a few weeks now – was dead, Susana would care for him. That would require surgery, possibly, and Susana would want it done where she could do it quietly. 

Lisa slammed her fist on the desk in frustration. Someone _had _to do something. From what it seemed, it was almost like the FBI was admitting loss. Was that it? Were they deliberately dithering so that Susana would get away and the whole thing would be swept under the rug? Did they want the whole situation forgotten?

It seemed so, damnably so. The FBI would prefer to let Susana get away rather than admit their prior ethical lapse. A new trial for Susana would be a circus; it would all come out. The hidden evidence, the unethical behavior, all of it. Over the next few days, Lisa asked a few times what agents were being assigned to the Lecter investigation. Each time, she was told that hadn't been done yet. Be patient, a new Lecter task force would be formed and she would be part of it. 

At the end of the week, Lisa Starling went in to see her new boss. She sat down in the chair and sighed. 

"I'd like to know if I could take some time off," she said calmly. 

John Morton stared at her calmly. "Time off? We need every profiler we can get." 

"I know," Lisa admitted. "It's just…these past few weeks have been hell. I have leave coming to me. I'd like to take it."

Morton studied her emotionlessly from behind his desk. Don Quincy's things were still in the office. Some were boxed up, some were not. 

"Well, Starling, I'll let you have a week. We've got interviews for new profilers anyway, nothing is gonna happen for the next week anyway." 

"Thank you, sir," she whispered. 

"And if you're thinking of going after her…don't. We'll disavow any knowledge of your actions. You know that, right?" 

_You bet I do, _she thought, _but someone's got to do what is right. _

"Yes, I know," she said. She handed him the leave form and he signed it. Lisa Starling left Quantico and headed for home. On the way, she stopped in at a travel agency, where she picked up her tickets. A direct flight, with one stopover. It had cost her a lung to get on such short notice, but that was the breaks. She would leave in the evening, Washington, DC to Buenos Aires. 


	24. Past Revealed

                _The things I do, Susana Alvarez Lecter thought. _

                It had been a few days since her return to Buenos Aires.  The day after they had gotten back, Susana had gotten on the phone and called in a few favors to people she knew.  Luke Taylor had gone under the knife at a private hospital, and with enough of a financial gift to the doctors and staff they had agreed to keep shut about it.  She'd been in the OR with him while they did it, removing a few inches of intestine and repairing the bullet wound Lisa Starling had put there. 

                For two days she had cared for him in her mansion.  Only once had she hired a nurse so that she could sleep for a bit.  But Luke had rallied, and when she had told him to get up and start walking he had asked if they could go to church.   Somehow, she had expected it. 

                So here she was, sitting next to him, interminably bored in the pew.  The priest's sermon was long and boring.  Susana wore sunglasses, so he could not see when she rolled her eyes.  She scanned the fellow churchgoers and rated their clothing out of boredom.  There was one good point to all this, she thought.  It had given her a reason to go shopping for hats.  _That she had liked a great deal, and it had taken her a few hours to settle on the wide-brimmed designer hat she now wore.  In some ways it amused her to think of it:  while Lisa and the rest were cowering in the basement at Quantico, hoping to bring her back to prison, here she was.  Free, rich, and shopping for hats in an expensive Buenos Aires boutiques.  _

                But now she was bored insensate by the droning of the priest.  Luke seemed completely in tune with it all, even though he didn't speak Spanish.  His color looked better, she noticed.  He was still slow in walking and would be for a while.  She had gotten him a cane – a fancy, black one, with a bit of a surprise she knew he would like.  Pain medication kept him free of discomfort and antibiotics kept him free of infection.  

                Susana wasn't entirely sure what to do next with Luke.  She didn't plan on killing him.  He had been there when she needed help, and so she would stick by him for now.    She was weighing two alternatives in her mind:  staying in Argentina, as her parents had.  They had enjoyed a long and happy life in this country.  Alternatively, she knew, they would be looking for her in Argentina.  Being extradited did not worry Susana, but it would mean a lot of legal bills.  Alternatively, she could leave the country and seek a home elsewhere.  She was leaning more towards that.  Any country in South America would be happy to have a wealthy woman like her, and buying protection from officials would be easy.  Argentina was her home, but they would be looking for her here, and without her parents there was no need to stay. 

                Susana watched as they prepared communion.  She helped Luke to his feet and got into line behind him.  The line moved slowly, each person stopping to receive a wafer.  Luke did and then she stepped up.  Susana watched how the others put their cupped palms out to receive it.  She had rarely been in churches and never actually done this before.

                The priest smiled benevolently at her and offered her a wafer. 

                "_El cuerpo de Cristo," he said.  _

                "_Muchos gracias," Susana said, and popped the wafer in her mouth.  She enjoyed the look of surprise on the priest's face.  Ahead of her, heading back to his seat, Luke seemed horrified, at least what she could see from behind him.  Back in the pew, he looked at her with an expression of stunned disapproval. _

                "You aren't supposed to take communion," he said in a hissed whisper. 

                "Why not?" Susana asked back.  "You did." 

                "You're not…you're not a Catholic." 

                Susana shrugged.  "You get a piece of bread and I don't?  That hardly seems fair." 

                "That is not it," Luke said.  "It is a sin.  That is the body of Christ." 

                Susana tilted her head at him and grinned.  This was fun.  "Jesus was made out of bread?" she asked, in order to annoy him.  "That _is novel.  I'm a doctor, I've seen a lot of things, but I have never seen a man made out of bread before."_

                "No!"  Luke's lips twisted.  "It _becomes the body of Christ." _

                "So it's human flesh?  I doubt that, Luke, I know how it tastes."  

                Other people were beginning to look at them, even though the Argentines surrounding them did not speak English.  So Susana piped down, grinning.  When the services were over, back in the car, he still seemed angry about it. 

                "It's sacrilege," he tried to explain.  "You must profess faith before you can do that.  You have to be baptized and confirmed.  And take first communion and confession." 

                Behind the wheel, Susana chuckled.  "All that for a little piece of bread?  How awfully inconvenient.  I'll buy bread at the supermarket, thank you." 

                "It's a sin," he said. 

                "Sin?" Susana asked.  "Maybe for those who worship the gingerbread-man Messiah.  But I have spent a great deal of time and effort to get you down here, Luke.  I could have left you back in Virginia, but I didn't.  I've spent a great deal of time and effort on you, so let me have my little sacrileges, will you?" 

                Back at the house, she set him up in the living room on the couch with the TV.  He needed to rest.   Plus, she was feeling too much temptation to harass him about his religious beliefs, which she found amusing.  The thought of the authorities factored for very little in her mind.  It was remarkable, she thought, how safe she felt here.  The mansion was a sanctuary, a bulwark against the authorities who wanted her.  Of course, the fact that the local police were in her pocket helped a great deal.  

                …

                Buenos Aires was pretty big, even compared to DC. Lisa discovered relatively quickly that her knowledge of Argentine Spanish was about the level of a five-year-old's.  The first snag came up at Customs, when she explained she was armed.  Fortunately, her FBI credentials along with a copy of the original arrest warrant sufficed to get her through that.  And thank God they hadn't actually called back to the FBI.  

                She'd caught a cab to her hotel – a decent place with clean sheets and a bed, although nothing like Susana's tastes in hotels.  After a quick shower and a night's sleep, she was ready to start seeking out her cousin.  It was much more difficult than she thought.  The language barrier was higher than she would have imagined.  It took much longer to explain what she wanted.  Plus, she knew, she didn't want the police finding her here; they would go back to the FBI and Lisa would be on a plane back to the US, to face an angry boss. 

                Her first stop had been the American embassy, where she had gotten an unpleasant surprise.  The embassy had been helpful in turning over whatever records they had on Susana Alvarez.  Lisa had poked through the folder critically, and then at the back, she had found something that stunned her.  

                _Many years earlier _

_                "I think this does it," the consular official says, smiling at the woman.  "That's all the documentation we need.  We would have liked to meet with your husband, though."  _

                Maria Alvarez is uncomfortable here in this building, here on this tiny patch of home soil of her former country.  She can understand why her husband was unable to meet with the consulate, though.  Had the embassy known that Maria Alvarez was in reality Clarice Starling, there is little they could actually do to her.  Had they known Alonso Alvarez was actually Hannibal Lecter, it would have been much worse. But the official had met Dr. Alvarez for lunch one day, satisfying their requirements.  It is the practice of the American embassy to try and be as helpful as possible to American citizens living in Argentina. She smiles at the woman, Susana Alvarez in her arms attempting to inventory the contents of her mother's pockets.  

_                "He's very busy," Clarice says.  "I know you wanted to meet with him here, but she's my daughter, and I am an American citizen.  That's good enough, right?"  The paperwork backs her up, too.  Her identity documents are top-notch, and prove to anyone who might want to know that Maria Alvarez was born in Chicago to Argentine immigrants, and as an adult she has returned home.  The fact that there never was a Maria Alvarez until six years ago is a secret of Clarice's._

_                "It's fine," the woman says.  "Usually we try to get people to register right after the baby is born, though." _

_                "We've been very busy," Clarice says.  "Caring for a baby—well, you know."  This is a risk, Clarice thinks, a real risk.  But she thinks it unfair that her daughter be denied what is rightfully hers, and after all, it's only money.  Once Susana is registered, they can always flee the country if need be.  She has no intent on ever returning to the United States, but Clarice Starling is a loving mother, and does not want to deprive her daughter of anything she is entitled to. Dr. Lecter, too, feels that it is dangerous, but Susana is the apple of his eye (as she will remain for many years), and he is no better at denying her anything than he is at denying himself. _

_                "Yes, of course," the woman says.  She smiles across the desk at the two-year-old girl in her mother's arms.  "Hi, honey," she says to the little girl.  Clarice puts the child down for a moment, and the little girl scurries across the room to look at the American flag beyond the glass door in the lobby.  Her patent leather maryjanes make little sound on the carpeted floor.  Having satisfied herself with the pretty colors, she walks confidently across the room to the wall where several wanted posters hang as her mother talks with the consular official.  _

_                "Well, Mrs. Alvarez, we'll go ahead and issue Susana a Consular Record of Birth Abroad, a Social Security card, and a child's passport," the woman says.  "Did you bring photographs of her?"  _

_                Clarice nods and hands the woman an envelope containing official passport-sized photographs of her daughter.  The woman takes them and hands Clarice a blue piece of paper.  After another few minutes, the passport is ready, and she gives that to her too.  _

_                "Oh, wait," the woman says, "she's got something."  Clarice turns quickly, feeling the automatic flush of embarrassment that any parent of a toddler knows intimately.  Susana marches back to her mother with her prize in hand: a wanted poster. She holds it up proudly for her mother and the official.  _

_                It is standard practice to put up the wanted posters of criminals on the FBI's Ten Most-Wanted List in American embassies.  Susana is only two, and cannot read the word WANTED across the top of the poster; nor does she know the words WARNING: ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS, words that will be used to describe her later in life.  The photograph she does know, however.  Even though it is a comfortable two faces behind, Susana knows the man in the picture.  She brandishes the wanted poster for Hannibal Lecter at her mother and the consular official and taps the picture with her other hand.  A scar is visible between the middle and ring fingers of the toddler's left hand.  It is small and faded.  By the time Susana starts school years later, it is almost unnoticeable, and she will not even bother to think about the scar until fourteen years later.  But for now, she is much more interested in the wanted poster and the picture of the man in it._

_                "Papa," she says, and smiles brightly, tapping the black and white picture. _

_                "That's not your papa, honey," the woman says, amused, and offers Susana a lollipop in exchange for the poster.  Mrs. Alvarez has the good graces to appear mortified and apologize, but the consular official is not mad.  The little girl has just taken down the poster, that's all.  Like any two-year-old, Susana's eyes light up at the sight of the sugary treat, and she reaches out for it with a small, chubby hand.   The concept of trading, though, is not one that comes easily to her.  She attempts to get the lollipop and keep the poster, too. Her hand firmly clenches the heavy paper as the official tries to pry it away.  Eventually, though, she does give it up and settles in to eat her lollipop while the women talk._

_                "This is Susana's CROBA, and this is her passport," the woman says with practice.  "Keep them very safe, because they are her proof of citizenship.  She'll need to come back here to renew her passport, unless you happen to move back to America.  Did you have any questions for me?" _

_                "Oh, no," Clarice says, smiling and extending her hand.  Internally, her heart was pounding.  Thank God Susana was only two.  The consular official appears not to have noticed Susana's maroon eyes, or the scar on her hand where her extra finger had been removed six months ago. "Thank you so much for everything." _

_                "Our pleasure, Mrs. Alvarez," the woman says.  "You have a nice day."  As Clarice gathers up her daughter and heads out the door, the woman watches her go.  Susana stares over her mother's shoulder at the woman, and then at the flag.  Those eyes are something else, the woman thinks. Maroon eyes, staring out of that little baby's face.  Pretty, but somehow frightening._

_                The official gathers up her copies of the papers given to Clarice Starling.  One copy, as stipulated by federal law, is sent to the Department of State in the diplomatic bag.  There, it sits undisturbed and unmolested for years.  There are so many listings for Alvarez that it sits unnoticed. Clarice Starling does not tell her daughter she is an American citizen.  She wants to wait until Susana is old enough to understand that her parents were not always rich Argentines, and that she must be careful, because the paperwork is based on Clarice's false claims.   As time goes on, the fact of her daughter's citizenship simply is forgotten.  The papers remain in Clarice Starling's safe, and Susana will find them when necessary. _

_  Nineteen years later, when Susana first journeys to the United States, the investigation does not turn it up for the simple reason that Susana entered the United States on her Argentine passport and does not claim American citizenship.  She does not know herself what her mother has done.  Two years after that, when she returns to the US, she bears several false identities to pad the way – necessary, for Susana is by then wanted herself.   When she is arrested, even then it is not found, because Susana identifies herself as an Argentine.  _

_The remaining copy remains in the possession of the consulate.  It is put into a manila folder and remains with all the others, never taken out, never seeing the light of day.  Years pass, and a second Starling enters the American Embassy of Buenos Aires, seeking out information, and she is amazed at what she sees.  _

_Dear God, Lisa thought ruefully.  __We couldn't have even deported her.  Maybe it wasn't legit – after all, Clarice had used forged paperwork – but that would've been up to a judge, and Susana would have had one hell of a good-faith argument.  She had been two years old when the CROBA had been issued.  It was entirely possible that a judge might give her the benefit of the doubt.  But there was nothing beyond that:  the child passport was years out of date, and Susana had never sought another one.  Either she was saving this up as an ace in the hole, in case she had no other identity to use, or she didn't know herself.  Lisa thought the latter more likely – it made no sense for Susana to employ an American passport in her own name as a last-ditch identity.   _

But still.  Three times now Susana had gone on a killing spree, and three times the FBI had delved into Susana's past.  And they missed _this?  No one had thought to go to the Department of State and put her name into their computer?  __What a bunch of great investigators, Lisa thought.  There was a certain amount of self-criticism in there as well, and she accepted it.  She had learned where Susana went to high school. She had been the one who had realized that the Susana Alvarez in the old Skinner investigation was her cousin.  She had seen the apartment in Boston where Susana had lived during her med school and residency years.  But she, too, had completely fluffed this one.  Susana liked to flaunt it, to be right under the noses of her pursuers, and __this had to be the biggest example of all.  All those newscasters musing about it had been wrong, and the proof right here, all the time.  Susana Alvarez, U.S. citizen.  She stared at the picture of two-year-old Susana.  Awfully cute for a murderer.  It was __weird to think of her malevolent cousin, who killed whenever she chose, as a two-year-old with pink barrettes in her hair, but there it was.  _

Lisa peeled one of the pictures away and stuck it in her pocket.  She had to be careful – she didn't want word floating back to the States about what she was doing. That meant she couldn't ask for much in the way of police help from the local boys.  But that might have been better – Susana didn't have a problem killing police officers, and Lisa did not want her to have any reason to kill more.

Her next stop was at the local telephone company, and that was where she got an amazing break.  She knew Susana's home address from her first visit to the US.  Her FBI badge got her what she wanted.  The clerks seemed amused by her fumbling Spanish, but they kept their amusement to themselves.  They gave her what she asked for, and she could hardly believe it.  

The phone number for that address had been in the name of Maria Alvarez for years, from the dates of service.  About two months ago, the name on the account had been changed, from _Alvarez, Maria to __Alvarez, Susana.  A notation on the account noted __Madre difunta – hija  __toma responsibilidad.  The account had been switched over perhaps two days after Susana's escape.  _

Could it be this easy?  Was Susana living under her own name in her home country?    Lisa knew that her cousin liked to flaunt it when she could, and it was quite possible that she felt safe enough to use her own name here.  Or maybe it was a red herring.  Maybe someone else was living in the mansion, and Susana holed up somewhere else.  Lisa remembered the Ana Castillo switch all too well.   She would not put it past her cousin to try it again.

There was only one way to find out.  Lisa got herself a map of Buenos Aires and located Susana's address on it.  Not far from the French embassy, Lisa noted.  It took her a little bit of time to plot a route from the public library she had holed herself up in to Susana's home, but eventually she got it. 

She walked out and caught a taxi.  Communicating her destination to the driver was a bit difficult, but after showing him the address on the phone company receipt and a bit of Spanglish, she was able to get her point across.  As the cabbie drove off, Lisa lay her head back and thought. 

What was she going to do?  She had no authority to arrest Susana herself, not here.  If she was caught here she'd get in trouble.  Although probably not, she allowed, not if she brought Susana back in cuffs.  They would do their extradition bit and all, but Lisa would do what she had done before and bring her cousin to justice.  

The accusations nagged at her, but those were up to the judge.  For just a moment, she wondered what would happen if the judge did throw out the charges against Susana.  But that wasn't _her job, she allowed.  If the judge let Susana walk…well, Lisa would be horrified, but that was the breaks.  She would not allow the FBI to railroad her cousin, though.  _

And maybe that was it, she thought.  Maybe she wanted a bit of time to explain:  to have Susana in a cell somewhere where Lisa could talk to her and make her understand that she, Lisa Starling, had nothing to do with the trumped up charges nor the FBI's refusal to hand over the evidence in the legitimate charges.  Lisa would see that Susana's attorneys got whatever she was legally entitled to.  If the USDA had to drop the death penalty to get her extradited, that was fine, Lisa could deal with that and the rest of the FBI would have to find some way to cope.  If the judge threw out the charges against Susana because of the FBI's malfeasance…the thought of that galled Lisa, but she would accept that.  But she _was going back, and she __was going on trial, and she __was going back to jail, at least for the time being.  That Lisa would not negotiate on.   Susana had killed and so she must be held to answer for that.  _

The houses got tonier and more expensive, and Lisa nodded.  Here, Susana had grown up with the tastes and preferences that vast wealth brought.  She told him to let her out half a block up the street from where Susana lived.  After tipping him, Lisa walked up the street, her hands in her pockets, scoping things out.  

_This is dumb, she thought.  __I could lose my job for this.  _

_Yeah, but I'm here, another voice answered back.  __In for a penny, in for a pound, and someone has to do what's right.  _

Lisa walked up to the mansion in which her first cousin had lived for years and where her first cousin once removed currently lived.  She took in a deep breath and surveyed the house.  All was quiet on the street.  Then she drew her Glock, screwed up her courage, and walked up the driveway.  On the ground floor, she saw a window open for ventilation.  It was big enough for her to wiggle into.  

Lisa Starling slipped onto the carpeted floor of her cousin's mansion.  She stood and looked around at the opulence:  in the hall hung a portrait of Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling.  Next to that was a painting that Lisa thought might be a Vermeer.  She could hear a TV, tuned to an English-speaking channel.  She hefted the Glock and went in search in search of the sound for it.  

Lisa's strike against her cousin had just begun. 


	25. Showdown

Lisa Starling edged along the hallway, her heart pounding. Here was the monster's lair. It was quite fancy, she saw. But all the art and all the furniture and all the silk wallpaper in the world could not hide the fact that two killers dwelled here. Her pistol was up and out, covering everything in front of her. Her heart was pounding. Part of her screamed that this was insane: she had no backup, she had no legal authority to be here. Susana knew this house like the back of her hand; Lisa knew nothing about the house at all. But she was here, and she _would _finish this. 

She edged along the hallway. She could still hear the TV. Tilting her head, she could also hear a grunt and springs creak. She closed her eyes and thought for a moment. _Couch. Someone lying on the couch, watching TV. _Was it Susana? Probably not. Lisa knew her cousin's tastes pretty well, and she doubted that Susana Alvarez Lecter would be interested in religious TV shows. 

That left her accomplice. Luke Taylor. Martyrer and tonguer of helpless FBI agents. It made perfect sense for him to be lying on the couch, and to be watching an English-language televangelist show. Lisa remembered him hovering over her, half the world away, thought of his red tongue slipping into her mouth, and shuddered. Her hand tightened on the butt of her Glock. But he was wounded. She would give him a chance to surrender peaceably. 

The couch springs groaned again. She heard a male voice speak out. 

"Susana? Is that you?" 

That was _him, _all right. The guy who had dragged her back into a bedroom and toyed with her while she was helpless. Lisa's stomach clenched at the memory. She said nothing, simply edged a few more steps down the hallway. Ahead was the room he was in. She could see partially into the room through the open doorway; the TV was on. A big, wide-screen Sony. Somehow she was not surprised. A man in a robe and a long beard was on the screen, talking about Jesus and the apostles or something like that. Despite herself, Lisa grinned: the guy looked like an old-time monk. But she was more concerned with the guy she _couldn't _see. 

She heard the sounds of someone getting off a couch and standing and retreated a few steps, waiting. Her pulse beat in her ears. 

…

Luke Taylor lay watching the TV program he had found. Susana's home offered the very best cable package available in Argentina. There were all the premium channels: HBO, Cinemax, Starz. There were plenty of English-language channels available. A few had even been porn channels and that offended him. Susana had thought it was hilarious and told him he didn't have to watch them. But at last he had found what he wanted. _Brother Zeno's Spiritual Hour. _He was still slightly annoyed with Susana for her sacrilege in the church, but that was fading. He had to forgive her, after all. In time, she would profess faith. He knew she would. 

He heard something: a soft step along the hallway. He glanced around curiously. It wouldn't have been one of the servants: they would have no reason to hide. They would have either gone past him quietly or asked him if he needed something. That left Susana. He had thought she was upstairs puttering around doing something else, but perhaps she had come down. Yes, perhaps come to apologize for her blasphemy and pray with him. 

Or it might even be something else, he thought, and stood up from the couch he had been lying on. He reached for his cane and took a few hesitant steps forward. 

"Susana?" he called. "Is that you?" 

No reply came. Luke's eyes narrowed. A sinner, perhaps. One of the dark ones. He walked out into the hallway, determined to see who it was. He saw a figure, roughly Susana's height. The light behind her silhouetted her, but he knew immediately it was not his bride to be. Susana had no reason to walk around her own home with a pistol held up in front of her. 

"Freeze!" the figure demanded in English. "FBI. You're under arrest." 

Luke recognized the sinner's voice immediately. Lisa Starling. Susana's cousin, and one of the witches of Behavioral Science. Somehow she had tracked them down here. For just a moment he was frightened, but he knew what he had to do. It was so written in the Bible: _Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. _

He grasped the black, gold-handled cane Susana had given him and revealed its surprise. The handle twisted neatly to the left and came loose in his hand with a metallic _click. _From the wooden shaft he withdrew a glittering surgical-steel blade perhaps eighteen inches long. He took two large, quick steps towards her. That hurt his stomach, but still he had to try. 

"Drop it!" Lisa commanded, her stomach turning a big loop-the-loop as the crazed killer approached her with his blade. The idea that she might be returning to the FBI in a pine box occurred to her, and she tightened her grip on the gun. "Turn around, put your hands on your head! I'll shoot you!"

Luke Taylor didn't think she would. The Lord protected his servants. Susana might be angry at him for doing this, but in time she would come to understand. And besides, he was the man of the house now. And was it not written that the wife should obey the husband? He took another two quick steps forward, closing in so that her advantage with the pistol was neutralized. It hurt, but he knew his duty. The witch would die. He would make it quick. His wife to be would appreciate that, once she realized that Lisa had to be martyred. For their good, and for her own. She would profess faith at the end, and be saved. The blade gleamed as he brought it up and thrust it at Lisa Starling's soft stomach. 

…

The sunlight came in through the window in her mother's office, but Susana paid it little attention. She had been looking through her mother's paperwork, trying to decide what to do with the charities her mother favored. Maria Alvarez had always been a great supporter of charities. For the woman once known as Clarice Starling, it was a way to help, a way to save the lambs. 

But for her daughter, it was a way of being tracked by the FBI and therefore had to go. It was true that Susana had only sacrificed sixty-two days of her life in prison. But it was also true that the powers that be wanted to put her back there for the rest of her life, and it was also true she would do whatever was in her power to avoid going back. Nine people had lost their lives so that Susana Alvarez Lecter could remain free. If she had to, she would shed more blood without a second thought. Cutting off the Red Cross and Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo was nothing to her. They'd get by; they always had. 

It was then, assembling the paperwork that indicated her mother's lifetime dedication to saving the lambs, that Susana Alvarez noticed the portrait on the far side of the wall. The portrait itself was of herself and her father. She was small in the picture, approximately five or six, sitting on his lap. She'd seen the portrait many times before. But this time she noticed the unobtrusive hinges on the side of the knurled wood frame. 

Susana crossed the room and touched the painting. It opened like a door, revealing a hidden safe behind it. Intrigued, Susana tilted her head and stared at the combination lock. Good British make, it looked like. She could always have it drilled open – the house _was _hers – but it would be more fun to try and crack it herself. 

She tried her mother's birthday. That did not work. Neither did her father's birthdate or her own. Susana let out a _hmmph. _Then she looked back at the portrait, of herself and her father. Was that it? 

She spun the dial to nineteen, then thirty-eight, then twenty, then four. Papa's birth year, then her own. The safe clicked. Susana moved the lever down again and it went all the way down this time. She grinned. How very fitting in a way: Clarice Starling, an orphan, had always cared very deeply for the family she grew to have in later life. 

Then a noise from downstairs caught her attention. A man's voice: Luke calling for her. What did he want, anyway? He had his TV monk, he ought to be happier than a clam for the time being. Then a woman's voice spoke and Susana's blood chilled. She knew who _that _was. Her current family.

On her mother's desk was a 9mm pistol. Susana grabbed it and checked it. It was locked and loaded. She cocked the pistol and ran downstairs. 

…

Lisa Starling cried out as the psycho's sword pressed into her stomach. It felt icy cold. There was a nauseating pressure, like a thumb over an eye, and she could feel the horrid invasion of the blade sinking a few inches into her body. She took two fumbling steps back. She could feel her own blood flowing onto the tail of her shirt and the waistband of her pants where he had stabbed her. She aimed the Glock directly at him.

"Drop it," she said, her lips barely mouthing the words. Her wound robbed her voice of strength, and she knew what she had to do. Luke Taylor advanced on her, his lips curving in a cruel smile as he prepared to finish her off. 

"Do you believe in God, Agent Starl--," he started. 

Luke Taylor was a man driven by his own personal demons, and he had fused religion into his own experiences, redefining a creed of peace and love to suit his own twisted ends. But he was quite sincere and he was profoundly devout in his own way. He did believe in his God, and he believed in the Holy Trinity. 

So it was somehow quite fitting that what ended his life there, in the Lecter mansion in Buenos Aires, was three bullets fired in rapid succession from Lisa Starling's Glock. A small deadly Trinity of death. Two of the bullets found their mark in his head. The first shattered the wide bone of his forehead and entered his brain, putting to rest once and forever the visions of martyrs and heretics that had driven him. The second hit lower, between his nose and upper lip. The third pierced his heart, which had already begun to beat erratically as the signal from the brain had been interrupted by two pieces of lead tearing through it. 

Luke collapsed to the floor facedown without another word. He had died intending to save his Susana from the dark witch who had hunted them down to their Promised Land. He had meant, up to the very last, to slay the witch, as his faith demanded that he do. He had known Lisa was armed and faced her down anyway. It would have been fair to say that he had died for his faith. In fact, one might say that Luke Taylor was a martyr himself. 

Lisa Starling took another step back, her ears ringing from the triple report of the Glock. She heard footsteps thundering towards her and spun around, the Glock aimed in front of her. A silhouette in the hallway approached her cautiously. With the light behind the figure, it seemed almost her duplicate. The muzzle of a 9mm Beretta was aimed at her just as the muzzle of her Glock was pointed at the figure. 

"Susana," Lisa said. 

"Lisa," the figure returned, stepping a bit closer. Lisa made out her cousin's features. Susana's eyes slid from her cousin to the figure on the floor. An expression of shock and surprise crossed her face for just a moment before closing up. 

"You shot a wounded man?" Susana asked incredulously. "Lisa Starling, I'm amazed." 

"He was armed," Lisa said. "I gave him a chance to surrender. I'll give you one too. Drop your weapons and put your hands on your head. You're under arrest." Her hand trembled on the Glock. Her heart raced. 

Susana's lips curved into a smile, forgetting Luke for the moment. A cold chill spilled over Lisa's limbs as she remembered that both Lecters _perè _and _fils_ had been described as sociopaths. Did Susana honestly not care that Lisa had just killed her boyfriend? It seemed so. Or perhaps, more likely, she was dismissing it to deal with the situation here and now. 

"No," Susana said simply, and laughed. "You're not a cop here, Cousin Lisa. You're not even a citizen. This is Argentina, not America." 

"I have a warrant for your arrest, and--," Lisa began. 

Susana's gun barked once. Lisa screamed despite herself. Next to Lisa's head, a bullet hole now marked the wall. 

"That was a warning, not a miss," Susana grinned, and Lisa believed her. "Now, now, dear cousin. You know better. The law you claim to uphold so dearly does not allow you to march into my house and take me out in handcuffs. But I'll tell you what, Lisa, I'm feeling generous. Put down _your _gun, and go home. Fly away back to America, Lisa Starling, and I'll let you go." 

"Like hell," Lisa retorted. Back in Alexandria, she had been intimidated by Susana even when she was in chains. Now, with a pistol in her hand and seemingly nary a care in the world, she was even more intimidating. Fear tasted coppery on Lisa's tongue, like weak battery acid. 

Another figure came in behind Susana and chattered something in Spanish. Lisa's muzzle swung to and fro. Her heart raced. Her fingers were cramping on the grip of her gun. She realized now just how alone she was. 

"Oh, calm _down, _Lisa," Susana said patronizingly. "That's just my maid." Then she answered the maid back in Spanish. Lisa's clumsy _castellano _did not permit her to comprehend what was said. 

The maid vanished, and Lisa aimed her gun again at her cousin. Susana seemed not at all concerned that Lisa's Glock was pointed directly at her chest. The muzzle of her Beretta wavered not at all from Lisa's nose. Neither woman moved. 

"You _do _realize what a Mexican standoff this is, Lisa, don't you?" Susana asked. "And you kept the hair brown. I'm touched, really, I am. The perfect image of my dear mother." 

"Susana, this is it," Lisa said. "The other agents will be here any minute." The reminder of how easily Susana had captured her before made her tremble further. Some brave FBI agent she made. But she kept the gun pointed at her cousin and wondered what the hell she was going to do now to see this through.

Susana chuckled. "I doubt that," she said mildly. "You're here alone, Lisa. Came down here on leave, did you not?" 

Lisa shook her head. "There's a task force assembled to get you. Drop the gun, Susana, it's over." 

"If there were," Susana said, a cutting smile on her face, "there would be a few hundred _Gendarmaria _surrounding my house, and I'd have heard about it long beforehand, Lisa." She shook her head slowly. "Face it, Lisa…you did this out of school, didn't you? I don't have to do what you say." Incredibly, she stuck out her tongue at her cousin like a small girl. "Pbbbbth." 

Suddenly, there were several uniformed police officers running into the hallway, with shouts in Spanish. Susana turned around calmly. Lisa grinned victoriously. _Makes sense. In a ritzy area like this they show up quick. Didn't think of that, did you, Susana? _

"_Policìa!_" one of them said. "_Caiga su arma." _

Astonishingly, Susana complied. She turned around, her hands in the air. 

"_Buenos dìas,_", she said to the officer who had spoken. "_Soy Dr. Alvarez, y este es mi casa. Ella matò a mi amigo, allà." _

Lisa reached in her back pocket for the creased copy of Susana's arrest warrant. They could be the ones to take her in. "Do any of you speak English?" she asked. "I'm Agent Lisa Starling of the FBI." She took out her ID and waved it in her cramping left hand. "That is Susana Alvarez, and I have a warrant from the Eastern District Federal Court of Virginia for her arrest." 

The policemen's guns were still aimed at her. 

"_Caiga la pistola," _the one who had spoken repeated. 

"Drop your weapon, Lisa," Susana Alvarez Lecter said helpfully. "I think they mean it, too." 

Lisa knew when she was outmatched. Still, something in her quivered to put down her weapon. This was way too easy. Susana had simply put down her weapon and was being completely cooperative. The woman had killed nine people just to make sure the FBI could not track her. There was no way she was going to cooperate with going back just for the Buenos Aires police. 

But the fact of the matter was, they were going to shoot her if she didn't put down the gun, and from their point of view it made perfect sense. So she bent down and carefully placed the Glock on the floor and reached for her ID and the warrant again. 

Another cop came forward , his gun still out. His left hand was extended to take the ID and warrant. 

"I speak…some English," he said haltingly. "You are…FBI?" 

Lisa nodded. "I have a warrant for her arrest," she said. "She is wanted in the United States. _Arrestela, por favor?" _

The cops all seemed quite amused at her Spanish. That was fine. So long as Susana ended up in a cell, they could laugh all they wanted. Whatever happened next did not matter. Extradition hearings, dropping the death penalty, that was all fluff. Susana was going back to jail, back on trial, and back to the United States. 

The cop looked at the limp body of Luke Taylor on the floor, blood pooling around his shattered skull on the expensive carpet. "You…you shoot him?" he asked. 

"Yes," Lisa said. "In self defense. He attacked me." That reminded her of her wound, and she glanced down at her stomach. The lower half of her shirt and the waistband of her pants was sodden with blood. Once she saw it, her knees got a bit weak. 

Susana was talking to another policeman. She seemed completely at peace. Lisa wondered what was going on. She couldn't make out the Spanish they were speaking, but the cop was being quite respectful to her, referring to her as Dr. Alvarez. She caught a comment about Susana's parents. 

The policeman took the warrant and studied it. He brought it over to Susana. 

"_Aquì es un autorización para su detención, Dr. Alvarez," _the cop who had talked to Lisa said calmly. 

"_Haga usted lo que tiene que hacer,_" Susana answered back. Lisa could understand that sentence. _Do what you have to. _

The policeman nodded, sighed, and took out his handcuffs. He took his prey's arm and fastened them onto her wrists. She seemed slightly shocked, but let him put the cuffs on her without complaint. He then took his radio and called down for a female officer to actually take their arrestee into custody. 

Lisa Starling felt suddenly sick to her stomach. Susana's eyes flashed angrily at her. She pressed her lips together and shook her head. For a moment, Lisa thought she saw tears in her cousin's eyes and almost gawped. Susana's hands clenched the arrest warrant behind her back. One of the cops said something in Spanish. Susana replied back angrily and then switched to English. When she spoke again, her voice was calm, but businesslike. But Lisa could tell she was rattled, and controlling herself with effort. Her voice was husky and she did not make eye contact with her cousin. Lisa herself felt only a strange sort of emptiness. After all she had been through…it came down to this.

"Lisa Starling," Susana translated, "you are under arrest for murder."

Then the police hustled Lisa out the door to the waiting cruiser. The car door slammed shut. Lisa stared blankly at her through the window, unable to understand how she had been outplayed. Poor girl, did she think police _everywhere _were as incorruptible as she was? Susana watched them go, her face sculpted in hard lines. She handed the arrest warrant the policeman had given her to her maid. 

"Burn this," she said tightly.


	26. Dark Savior

            _Author's note:  the Spanish that the guard speaks to Lisa isn't 'wrong', it's Argentine Spanish (which uses the 'vos' form.)  No gore in this chapter (sorry, Saavik), but here we go. _

After the showdown at the Lecter mansion, Lisa Starling was taken to the women's prison at Ezeiza.  She was incarcerated there pending her trial on murder charges.  A bail hearing was held and bail was denied, just as had happened to her cousin several months earlier and thousands of miles northward.  

There, just as Susana had done, she did the only thing she could do:  flopped back on her bunk and waited for her trial.  

                Susana Alvarez Lecter also fled her Buenos Aires mansion.  Her accommodations were far more comfortable than her cousin's.  Many years ago, Dr. Hannibal Lecter had bought another mansion on the beach in Mar del Plata, where the wealthy had built wonderful baroque mansions a century before.  There, the Alvarez family had spent their summers.  She brought along with her those things from the Buenos Aires house that she wanted, and the household servants moved with her.  The beach house was titled to one of Susana's alternate identities and was quite safe from the authorities.  She had no fear of capture here.  The local police were as amenable to quiet financial support as the Buenos Aires police had been. And she had it -- money had never been a concern of Susana Alvarez Lecter.  Between the sources she had in Buenos Aires and here, she would know of any American attempt to track her here long before the first FBI agent set foot on Argentine soil.  

                It had been roughly a week since Lisa's disastrous raid.  Lisa Starling sweltered in her tiny cell in Ezeiza.  Susana Alvarez sat out on the deck of the beach house, a glass of wine set before her on the table. She wore a bikini, an ankle-length sarong, a wide-brimmed hat, and sunglasses.  The deck extended out to a dock on one side.  On the other was a strip of beach that ran for a few hundred yards to where the waves of the Atlantic lapped. Swimming in the ocean was something she enjoyed doing, just as her father had after the enforced deprivation of his incarceration.   She was much more appreciative of it now – the smell of the salt air, the sounds of the seagulls and the waves, the freedom to go in the water or not as she wished.   All of it meant more now that she had been forced to do without it.

                She had won, once again.  Luke had been lost to her, but she could deal with that.  She hadn't known what she was going to do with him anyway.  The FBI was no more of a threat to her than the five-year-old next door:  they were too busy rebuilding their shattered Behavioral Sciences Unit, and their best source of information on her was currently stashed away in a cell in the women's prison at Ezeiza.  She could leave Argentina now and disappear completely. By the time the FBI was even able to track her again, she could be anywhere in the world she wanted, hidden away with a new face, a new identity, a new life.  Or she could stay here, where her wealth could guarantee her freedom.  Lisa might not want to see her now, but she would come around eventually.  She had everything she could want – freedom, wealth, the lifestyle that she had always wanted.

                So why then was she not happy?  Here she was, free, rich, and safe.  A month ago she had been incarcerated in a tiny cell, waiting to be frogmarched to her execution.  Now she was enjoying the wine cellar her father had set up in this house many years ago, being catered to by her servants, her own private strip of sea and sand, and the culture and couture of Buenos Aires were not terribly far away, if she should need them.  But she wasn't happy.  

                Susana wasn't a psychiatrist, and did not know the human mind as well as her father had.  But she knew what wasn't the cause of her malaise.  It wasn't Luke.  She had liked Luke, and he had been very useful.  She had been frankly stunned that Lisa Starling had the guts to kill him.  Given her choice she would have preferred him alive, but she wasn't going to play weeping widow over him.  

                No, Susana thought, the sources of her malaise were twofold, and both of them Starlings.  When Lisa had brought her the news of her mother's death in prison, it had not quite struck home to her.  At the time, she had other things that had commanded her attention:  finishing her handcuff key and wondering if she would die of appendicitis herself.  When she had made it down here the first time, she had still been distracted from it:  she had been planning the strike against Behavioral Sciences and hoping that Luke was going to fulfill his duty.  But now, all that had been taken care of.   It bothered Susana that her mother had died while she was a prisoner.  One more day, and Clarice would have known her daughter was free.  One more month, and she would have known that her daughter's dirty little war against Behavioral Sciences had successfully crippled them.  But fate had been cruel.  Clarice had died thinking her daughter a doomed prisoner.

                Next to the glass of wine lay two envelopes.   Both bore her name written across them in her mother's hand.  These were the only contents of the safe in her mother's office in Buenos Aires.  She had already torn open the first, and been as surprised as her cousin had been to discover that she had, indeed, possessed American citizenship since she had been a toddler.  It seemed somehow very like her mother to have done that.  Her papa would have deemed it too risky.  

The second was much more recent.  She had opened it and noticed the date:  two days before she had escaped from Alexandria.  She had not yet read the letter itself until now.   A sip of wine served to fortify her and she glanced around to make sure that none of the servants were around.  The fine vellum sheets in the envelope slid out easily, and Susana began to read her mother's last message to her.  

_Dear Susana, _

_I hope and pray that you're reading this in my office, free and clear.  If you are, I'll be happier than words can say.  I told you to come home – in fact, I begged you.  But you were convinced of your ability to evade the police.  I won't go on about that, though, as I'm not sure how much longer I have, and I don't want that to be the last contact we ever have.  _

_If you are free, I won't bother to ask you how that happened.  Somehow, I can tell:  if you are, you're free by your own hand and I'd imagine that the cost of your freedom was paid by someone else, in blood.  You are just like your father in that respect:  you found a weakness of the system and walked through it to freedom.  _

_Susana, it kills me to know that my only daughter is in prison.  I saw on the news that they plan to try and execute you.  I can't tell you how horrible that is to me.  I know that you won'  beg for mercy – you are too proud.  But I would, if it would make a bit of difference.  But I fear that it will not – the FBI can be very vengeful indeed, and they will stop at nothing to see you pay.  _

_From the day you were born, you were always your father's daughter. He was always the one you preferred; he was always the one you idolized.  Until you and I were both older, it never struck me as odd – after all, that is how I felt about my father. But it was always him you wanted to put you to bed, always him you wanted to emulate.  Then you went to the US and got hurt and arrested, and I went to go get you out of there.  And then you went back for medical school, and I was terrified, but things were calm.  You had that little jag between your first and second years of medical school, and that was where we found out Uncle David had a daughter who went into the FBI.  But then you settled in, and things seemed to be all right. You did your residency in Boston and then moved to Virginia, which scared the hell out of me.  And I hoped and prayed that you might come home where I could protect you, but you were happy and you were peaceful, and so I was all right with you being there.  And then, apocalypse.  They tracked you down and caught you._

_Susana, I don't know if I'll ever see you again, I don't know how much longer I have.  But if this is the last contact we ever have, please, I beg you.  Enough is enough.  Please, no more.   If you're free, take that as a second chance, and use it.  _

_You should also know that your father forswore killing when you were born.  It was not because he had turned over a new moral leaf – until the day he died, he continued to maintain that he could improve the quality of both the medical school staff and student body in a day or so with a Harpy, a Dremel tool, and an electric drill.  And he meant it, too.  It was not that he had decided killing was immoral – it was that he loved you more, and did not want to risk losing you.  _

_So please, Susana, for once in your life listen to me.  If you're free, you have a second chance.  Go from here if you need to, build a life, have a family.  Once I'm gone, you'll be alone.  Well, except for Lisa Starling, and she won't have anything to do with you.  I can't help you there – I knew Uncle David only very sketchily, and by the time Lisa was born we were already down here.  But please, Susana, quit taking such risks – the thought of you in that prison cell, with no one on earth caring what happens to you, terrifies me._

_What drove me was trying to save the lambs.  What drives you, Susana, is rage.  But what is it you rage for?  Your father is gone, Susana.  No matter how many you kill you cannot bring him back.  Or was it that serial killer?  Surely I can only begin to imagine the terror that put you through – but the Skinner is dead.  He can't hurt you anymore.  _

_You have always sought to emulate your father.  Emulate him in this.  You have a vast fortune, an excellent education, and the capability to live where you will.  Please, Susana.  You have a second chance.  Take it. _

_ With love,_

_Your mother_

_Maria (Clarice)_

Susana Alvarez sat in her deck chair and watched the waves of the South Atlantic batter the beach and considered her mother's final request.  There was the one Starling.  Running and hiding galled Susana, but her mother was correct – living under the noses of her enemies had landed her in a prison cell and almost gotten her killed.  Better to live safely than live in prison.  Next time there would be no Luke.  

The other Starling, of course, was Lisa.  Poor Lisa, jailed in Ezeiza.  Susana had never been jailed in Argentina herself, but she had heard that conditions in Ezeiza were barbaric. Amnesty International came down and whined about it in the press.   Insufficient light, insufficient food, insufficient ventilation.  Alexandria Detention Center had been hard time, but Lisa had it far worse.  Of course, Lisa had been foolish to the extreme to come down here after her herself.  

Susana pondered for a moment and called for her maid Juanita.  The young woman came out on the deck, offered her mistress a tentative smile, and asked what she wanted. 

"Please get my attorney on the line," Susana said. 

Juanita nodded.  "_Señor Nitti?" _

"No," Susana said.  "Pinzetti.  The one for dirty business."  

The maid did as she was told and brought the cordless phone out to Susana, along with a refill on her wine.  Susana accepted it with a nod of thanks and lifted the phone to her ear.  

"_Señor Pinzetti," she said calmly.  "This is Susana Alvarez.  I have some business I'd like to discuss with you."  _

…

The Ezeiza Penitentiary Complex was a vast warehouse of misery.  It was arranged in a triangle.  One long building made up one edge of the triangle.  The remaining two sides were made up of six identical dormitories, three per side. The prison had been rebuilt shortly before the turn of the century, around the same time as the Alexandria Detention Center had been built in Alexandria, Virginia.  Just as the Alexandria jail had held Susana Alvarez Lecter, the Ezeiza Penitentiary Complex held Lisa Starling.  

Lisa Starling was held in protective custody in the women's prison occupying the complex.  The Argentine authorities did not see fit to grant her bail, but as an American and a law enforcement officer, they did deem it appropriate to keep her segregated from other inmates for her own protection.  Her stomach wound had been stitched up at a Buenos Aires hospital before she had been brought here. The cell she occupied was more or less the same size as the one Susana Alvarez Lecter had been obliged to occupy.  She had a small barred window, a dirty mattress, and a toilet in her cell.  That, she learned swiftly, was about as good as it got.  

The prison did not offer amenities such as a library to its inmates, and recreation was for an hour a day in which Lisa was allowed to walk up and down a fenced-in dog run outside.  Time itself was oppressive, a very curse to Lisa Starling.  Once a week or so, she was taken down to the end of the cellblock and allowed to shower.  Her attorneys dropped in occasionally, and sometimes the American consulate sent someone over to 'monitor her condition'.  Lisa had hoped that they might be able to help her somehow.  Instead, they were simply able to point out that she was losing weight and hadn't been fed enough.  Lisa didn't need a consular officer to point that out to her. 

After two months in prison, Lisa found herself feeling empty.  Nothing seemed to faze her.  At first, she had been enraged, demanding an attorney, the American consulate, the FBI.  Now…she just felt nothing.  She couldn't muster up anger at her cousin anymore, even for sticking her here.  She would think about her life in America and it seemed so long ago.  Her world had shrunk to this damn little cell, the here and the now.  

She stood on her mattress, staring out her tiny barred window, hoping to see something, anything, to break the drudgery.   Fifteen minutes before, word had come down the run that a limousine had pulled into the front gates.  At least that was what she _thought it meant.  But now, there was nothing.  Just the same old, same old.  Boring. Tedious.  _

She heard the guards coming down the run and automatically ignored them.  It was funny, she thought in a vague and distant way.  All of her adult life spent enforcing the law, and now, in prison, she hated the guards as passionately as any other prisoner.   Damn screws.  

Lisa ignored the guards just as Susana had ignored hers, until she realized they were standing in front of her cell.  She simply eyed them with no friendliness or openness. 

"Starleeng!" one of them barked.  "_Vamonos.  Tenès visitadora."  _

"_Quìen es?" asked Lisa slowly.  Her cell door rumbled open.  _

"_Ya veràs," the screw answered.  "__Està esperandovos."    _

Lisa let them put the cuffs on her and take her down the run.  Who was it?  Her attorneys?  Didn't make sense.  Justice moved slowly in Argentina, just like anywhere else.  Last time she'd talked to them they'd said she would probably spend a year in the can before her trial started.   The useless consular people came once a month.  _Lisa, you're looking haggard.  Are they treating you well?  Why no, Miss Consular Officer, they don't feed me enough and keep me locked up most of the day.  Oh my, we'll register a complaint for you.  Helpful.  So glad to know that's where her tax money had gone all these years._

Visitation was normally in a room with a partition, but the guards brought her past that to a small room with a battered table and two chairs.   The table was pocked with cigarette burns.  The chairs were simple, wooden chairs with no concession to comfort at all.  One was empty.  The other was occupied by Susana Alvarez Lecter.  

                "_Aquì està ella, Dr. Alvardo," the guard said, sounding almost respectful.  Lisa had to gag.  What sort of topsy-turvy world was this?  She was locked up and __Susana was respected?  _

                The guard told her to sit and then removed her handcuffs.  Lisa eyed her cousin slowly.  These past two months had apparently been easy for Susana, a lot easier than Lisa's time had gone.  Of course _she hadn't been in prison.  Susana looked slightly tanner and was smartly dressed in a tailored Chanel suit.  She looked the perfect young professional.  Lisa put her elbows on the table and wondered what to say.  _

                "Hello, Lisa," Susana Alvarez said in English.  "How are you?" 

                 Lisa smiled tightly.  "All right, I guess," she said.  "Look at me."

                "You've dropped some weight," Susana observed.  "That's to be expected.  They don't feed you enough in prison.  They didn't at ADC, either."  

                "Like you care?"  Lisa said sarcastically.  "What are you here for anyway?  Gloating?" 

                "Not at all, Lisa," Susana said.  "You _are my cousin, after all, and you visited me when I was the one in jail.  I'm here to return the favor."  She reached down for something and then placed a white paper bag on the table.  The bag grabbed Lisa Starling's attention almost immediately.  A mouthwatering aroma of chicken arose from the bag, grilled chicken and spices.  _

                "Go ahead, Lisa," Susana said delicately.  "It's for you.  I ate beforehand."  

                "Thank you," Lisa said, remembering her manners before taking the bag. It contained a sandwich, thick bread and a thick piece of grilled chicken slathered with sauce.  God, it was good: smelled good, looked good, and she knew it would taste good.  The urge to simply devour it like an animal was quite strong, but something held Lisa back.  Even as her mouth filled with anticipatory saliva, she held back.

                "Are you sure you don't want any?" Lisa asked, her eyes narrowing just a bit.  

                Susana waved.  "Go right ahead," she invited.  "All yours."  

                Lisa began to eat it, but slowly, enjoying the taste of the rich sauce.  Susana watched her, seemingly amused.  

                "So what brings you here?" Lisa asked again.  "Planning to gloat?  Lecture me about how I shouldn't have come here?" 

                Susana smiled calmly and shook her head.  "What good would _that do?  The point is, Lisa, you __are here.  If you haven't learned the error of your ways…well, then, nothing I could say would change that.   And I simply want to ask a few questions of you, that's all.  Perhaps we could…help each other."  _

                As Lisa ate, she felt her strength surge anew, and with it came all the anger and resentment.  Susana Alvarez Lecter, a cold-blooded killer, was free.  She, Lisa Starling, an officer of the law, was not.  What game was Susana playing now?  Was this her final victory, leaving Lisa in an Argentine prison while she left?  Her eyes narrowed. 

                "I guess I don't see how you could help me…," Lisa said, finishing off the last remaining bites of the sandwich and having to consciously fight the urge to lick the remaining sauce off her fingers, "or for that matter, how I could help you.  Or why I would _want to help you.  You put me here."_

                Susana smiled tactfully, gracious hostess faced with a slightly rude guest.  "_I didn't put you here, Lisa," she said.  "You were the one who came down here after me, and then gunned down a wounded man."  _

                "Oh, so that's it," Lisa said.  "You're mad because I killed your boyfriend." 

                Susana shook her head.  "Not really," she said indifferently.  "You _were defending yourself, after all, and I liked the guy, but I didn't want to __marry him.  Luke did what I wanted him to, but I'd have had to leave the country without him anyway."  Noticing Lisa's look of surprise, she continued.  "Oh, don't look so surprised.  I __am a sociopath, at least that's what it says in my file." _

                Lisa Starling shook her head and grinned humorlessly.  "Maybe it does," she said.  "But you're not a sociopath, Susana…calling you that is oversimplifying things."  It felt somewhat strange to talk like a profiler again.   "There isn't a word for what you are." 

                "Yes, there is," Susana said promptly.  "Dr. Lecter." 

                Lisa looked mutely at her cousin, not sure how to answer that.  It made her think of Will Graham, and suddenly all the pain of his death came right back to her, fresh as it was when she watched Susana kill him. 

                "Well, Lisa, you're in a lot of trouble," Susana continued blithely.  "You'll be kept here in jail for the time being on the murder charges.  You'll probably claim self-defense, but that'll be hard.  Four police officers testifying against you…and the sword cane you claim Luke used to attack you?  Well, that's gone." Her eyes gleamed.  

                "You got rid of it," Lisa said heavily. 

                Susana shrugged.  "It disappeared," she said.  "Just like the evidence my attorneys asked for, back in Virginia.  Perhaps they're in the same place."  

                Lisa's shoulders slumped.  So _that was what this was about.  Payback.  It seemed somehow petty for Susana, but perhaps, in the end, Will Graham had been right.  Prison had changed Susana.  _

                "So that's it," Lisa said.  "I go to jail for the rest of my life and you go free." 

                Susana Alvarez crossed her expensively stockinged legs and leaned forward.  

                "Go to jail?  That's how it looks like right now, cousin.  You could claim insanity, I suppose, but the main difference between an insane asylum and a prison here are that you'd have a definite sentence to serve in prison.  Maybe after a few years they'd get big-hearted and let you serve out your sentence in an American prison rather than here.  In any case, you'd no longer be an FBI agent.  They'll put you on administrative leave, but once you're found guilty they'll have to fire you."

                Lisa shrugged herself and let out a short chuckle. 

                "Well, then," she said bitterly.  "I lose.  You win.  Congratulations." 

                "That is how it seems," Susana agreed.  "But you know, Lisa, we're two very different people.  Up there, you're an FBI agent and I'm a criminal.  Down here, I'm a wealthy heiress and you're the murderer.  But one big way that we're different is that _you want to see __me in jail."  _

                Lisa watched her cousin carefully. 

                "Do this the good, right way, and you'll be giving up your life," Susana explained.  "You'll serve at least twenty years in jail.  Your career will be in ruins.  Instead of tracking criminals at Quantico you'll be living with them.  But what would you say if I told you there was another way?  If I could guarantee you that one month from now, you'd be on a plane back to the United States, free and clear?" 

                Lisa Starling gave her cousin a streetwise look and shook her head slowly.  "That you're full of it," she said.  "You set this in motion.  But you can't get me out of this any more than I could have gotten you out of jail on my own say-so.  You can't possibly deliver on that."  

                "Not on my own say-so, no," Susana agreed.  "But Lisa, think for a bit…in your obsession with me, you must have learned about my father."  

                Lisa nodded, wondering what in hell her cousin was talking about.  

                "You knew my father had money from his elderly clients, way back when," she said.  "Fifty years ago, long before I was born.  Didn't it ever occur to you and your fellow FBI agents that for a man like my father, the stock market would've been a money making machine?" 

                Susana smiled, her eyes misty with memory.  "Papa was good at it, too. He said the market was half a question of minds:  knowing when people panic and sell and when they buy like idiots.  Tell me, did the FBI ever attempt to figure out how much money I have?" 

                Now Lisa understood.  Susana meant to buy her cousin's freedom.  But how?  And what did she mean?  Surely Susana knew what would happen if Lisa returned to the FBI. The hunt would continue.  She thought for a moment.  

                "We tried," Lisa said thoughtfully.  "Current estimates were anywhere from twenty to forty million, based on computer models." 

                Susana made a face and shook her head.  One elegantly polished thumbnail popped up and bounced.  "It's more than that," she said tactfully.  "A lot more.  Papa made a lot of it shortly before I was born.  He got out of the dot-com boom just in time."  She favored her cousin with a cold smile.  

                "I can get you out of here, and back to the FBI," Susana explained.  "Being rich is part of it – I can pay off the right people.  The other part, Lisa, is knowing where the weak points are.  I don't need to worry about paying off the judge, even though that's a possibility.  I just need to know what clerk will take a ten-thousand-dollar payment to give me something…say, the ballistics tests on your gun…the gun itself…the affidavits filed by the police officers who arrested you.  The statement I made.  Without that, there's nothing." 

                "Lisa, there are rules about such things here, and here they actually dismiss charges when evidence vanishes and isn't available for the defense.   The charges against you would be dropped.  Dropped…but not gone.  They could be refiled against you…_if that evidence ever came to light.  But so long as you left me in peace, I'd give you the same privilege." _

                "Blackmail," Lisa Starling said simply. 

                "If you see it that way," Susana said.  "The deal would simply be this: your freedom would depend on my own.  You'd be free, you'd be an FBI agent, just as before.  The only difference would be that if I was ever apprehended and sent back to the US, I would call an attorney.  That attorney would call down here.  The evidence would come to light – some safety deposit box somewhere, maybe here, maybe Uruguay, Paraguay, who knows?  And the authorities here would refile the charges against you, and then you'd have a choice,  I guess.  You could become a fugitive, of course.  But more likely, a warrant would be issued in the US for you, and you'd be taken into custody and extradited down here."  She smiled coldly.  "_You don't face death penalty charges, so extradition would be a small thing indeed.  But that's what it comes down to, Lisa, that's what I can do.  We would either both be free or both be jailed.  That's more than the FBI can offer you."  _

                Lisa was silent for several moments.  She was full for the first time in two months, and it had an effect on her.  She was grateful for the food, yes, but this just seemed to good to be true.  

                "And you would do this for me?" she asked.  

                "Once I have some answers," Susana hedged, "perhaps."  Her eyes locked on Lisa's.  "The question, Cousin Lisa, is what you have to tell me about your erstwhile employer.  And yourself." 

                Lisa didn't need to be told what Susana was talking about.  "I'm in Behavioral Sciences, Susana," Lisa said carefully.  "I don't work in the evidence labs.  You know that.  I had nothing to do with disobeying the court order. That was other people, not me." 

                Susana's voice was carefully neutral.  "Perhaps," she said.  "But Lisa, you know that the judge was planning to throw out the charges against me because the FBI refused to turn over the evidence my attorneys asked for.  You, who have studied me for years, you didn't keep up on my case?" 

                This was crazy, Lisa thought.  Here _she was in jail and Susana was demanding she justify herself.  But part of her still did want to explain.  Wanted to make Susana understand that she had nothing to do with the FBI's malfeasance.  _

                "I had other work to do," Lisa started.  "Other killers, just like you said.  I thought the legal system was just doing its job." 

                "Was it?" Susana asked cuttingly, her head tilted.  "You know, the day the judge told the FBI to turn over the evidence or he would free me, I actually thought there might be some justice for me after all.  So I went back to my cell and waited.  And then, a few days later, McNeely came and told me I had to go to court."  She chuckled bitterly herself, remembering.  "I had no idea for what.  Then in I went, and I was arraigned on charges of murdering Ardelia Mapp and attempted murder on you.  And they brought me back to my cell and I laid down on my bunk and stared at the wall. " She shook her head slowly. "And all I could think was that they were going to dismiss the charges that I _had done, and kill me for something I hadn't."  _

                Susana reached down and lifted a Prada briefcase from the floor.  From it, she took a manila folder and removed several papers from it.  She laid them on the table so that Lisa could see them.  

                "Autopsy results on Ardelia Mapp.  Specifically, ballistics and neutron activation tests.  A .45 was found near her body.  .45, she must've picked that up from my mother.  One bullet fired.  FBI tests on her hand proved definitively that she fired it.  That bullet was found in a steel bowl, in the bedroom, where I pulled it out of your chest."  

                Lisa's fingers unconsciously touched the scar on her ribcage where that bullet had struck.  She said nothing.  

                "Now, the bullet that killed _Mapp…that was a different story, wasn't it?  They matched it to a gun found at the scene. No prints, because I wiped your prints off the gun.  But you know what they did find?"  She held up another sheet of paper and read from it.  _

                "Blood, found in the chamber and on the slide of the gun.  Blood type B.  Your type, not mine.  Blood that fell on that gun from where she shot you…and you shot her."  

                Susana laid the sheet down on the table and speared her cousin with her eyes.  

                "I didn't kill Ardelia, Lisa.  I would have if I had the opportunity.  Sure.  I'd have made it painful, too.  I'd have made her scream and beg for death.  No simple bullet." Her eyes glittered with malice remembered and imagined. 

 "But…I didn't.  I am innocent of that crime."  She took a long breath.  "Innocent," she repeated.  "And the FBI knew it all along and hid the proof."

"I had nothing to do with that, either," Lisa said softly.  "That was the US Attorney.  I was never told, and I wouldn't have testified against you." 

"Really?" Susana tilted her head and gave her cousin a hard, unforgiving look.  "Knowing that I would have walked if you hadn't?"

Lisa nodded.  

"Knowing that you'd spend your career in purgatory for having let me walk?" Susana demanded.  "The FBI would never, never have forgiven you for that." 

"Yes," Lisa affirmed.  "The difference between you and me, Susana, is that I can stand losing.  I won't lie in order to win." 

Susana eyed her for several moments without saying anything.  

"I guess I have one final question, then," she said.  

"Sure," Lisa said. 

"Do you know where I found this?" Susana asked, her tone pleasant and vague.  

Lisa shook her head. 

"In your condo," Susana explained.  "In your little shrine to me you have there."  Her tone dropped and became more cutting and accusatory.  "So I must ask, Lisa,…if you claim this complete honesty, why then were you silent when my attorneys were looking for this evidence in an attempt to save my life?" 

Lisa sighed.  It probably was hard for Susana to believe.  But dammit, it was true.  Lisa had not known of the FBI's malfeasance.  She wouldn't put it past the powers that be to have hidden it from her, knowing she would not be part of it.  She would have agreed that Susana deserved to be punished for what she had done.  She could have even seen the death penalty as appropriate for Susana's crimes.  But she would not knowingly permit them to put her there by means of lies and deceit.    

She slumped over the table and sighed.  

"I didn't know you needed it, Susana," Lisa sighed.  "If I'd known, I would have given you whatever you were entitled to in a heartbeat.  I wouldn't be part of a frame-up.  That's not…not right.  And I know you don't believe me, and I know you'll probably just laugh at me.  But it's true.  If you'd walked on the legit charges, I wouldn't have been happy about it, but I would have accepted it." 

"The agency you serve tried to frame me," Susana observed pointedly.  Lisa thought that was probably what had angered Susana more than anything else.  Susana would have regarded being sentenced for something she had done as fair play.  Being sentenced for a crime she hadn't committed would have burned Susana to no end.  

"Yes, they did," Lisa said softly.  "And the FBI was wrong.  Is that what you want?  For me to admit it?  Fine, Susana, I'll admit it. What they did to you was wrong.  That's not right to do to anyone."

"Not even me?"    

"Not even you," Lisa affirmed.  

Silence reigned in the room for several moments.  Susana seemed to be weighing something in her mind.  

"All right," she said finally.  "I believe you."  Then, her emotional needs satisfied, she squared her shoulders and continued forward, confident and cocky once more.  

"Now then.  I don't plan on freeing you for free, you know.  You do have something I want.  I never did get a chance to get my FBI file, and see how you caught me.  So my question to you, Lisa Starling is this:  you know that file up and down, don't you?" 

Lisa sighed.  She knew where this was coming.  But the thought of being out…now that was nothing to sneeze at.  _Out.  _She wanted it so badly.  She could understand, now, why her cousin had seen fit to kill nine people in order to stay out.  She couldn't approve of it, but she could understand it.  Finally, she nodded.  

"My attorneys have spoken with the prison officials, and you'll be quietly released into my custody for a month or so," Susana said.  "All I want out of you is the contents of that file.  Do that for me, Lisa, and you'll have only one court appearance more to make, then you'll get a first-class ticket from Buenos Aires to Miami.  Back to the FBI.  You can do whatever you like, catch whatever criminals you like, just not me.  Well, I suppose you could.  But if you take away my freedom, you'd be giving up your own." 

Lisa Starling sat and thought for a moment.  Susana's deal was far better than what her public defenders had offered her.  Most of them were of the opinion that her best bet would be to plead guilty and see if they would let her serve out her time in an American prison.    Some deal.  

But the price…oh, the price seemed so high.  She would be dealing with the very woman who had murdered her colleagues.  Equipped with Lisa's knowledge of her, Susana would be impossible to find.  If the FBI ever found out, her career would be ruined.  And Susana would never be apprehended again.  For a woman whose sworn duty was to uphold the law, it struck her as selling her soul.  

Even that had its counterpoints, a small, sly voice whispered from the back of her mind.  Susana might well never be apprehended again anyway.  She had learned from her prior mistakes, and she would live a low-profile life far away from the FBI, probably in some country that didn't like the U.S. very much.  That would happen whether or not Lisa Starling was a special agent of the FBI or a prisoner of the Argentine government.   If she stayed here much longer, her career would be just as ruined.  _Why throw away your life, Lisa?  Give her what she wants, be free.  _

And somehow it seemed…fitting.  The agents she had worked with had ignored their sworn duty.  Instead of giving Susana what she was entitled to, they had tried to hide it and stonewall. When that had backfired, they had tried to frame her.  There seemed something appropriate in their being cheated of their prey.  

But the fact remained.  She would be helping a murderer remain free.  A murderer of her friends, her co-workers.  Will Graham.  Eight active-duty profilers, slain so that Susana could get away clean.  Taking Susana's offer would betray them all.  

For the second time, Lisa Starling thought about principles.  It was all well and good to have principles when things were easy.  In the clutch, though, was when principles were truly tested.  When what you believed in cost you personally. 

But was there a cost that was too high?  Was it worth it to throw away her life rather than help her cousin? No one would care that Lisa Starling had refused her cousin's offer.  She would merely be 'poor Lisa', as in "Poor Lisa Starling, she's serving a life term down in Argentina."  At some point, she had to wonder, could anyone really blame her for raising her palms and crying, '_Hold, enough'?  _

"I'll need to think about it," Lisa stammered.  

Susana nodded.  "Of course.  It'll take a bit of time, anyway.  The plan was to get you out during dinner.  I thought you might like to remain here, rather than go back to your cell.  But, if you'd rather be alone to think about it, you can go back to your cell.  I won't be offended.  But make the choice carefully.  I won't be sticking around forever, Lisa…this is a one time offer."

"Thank you," Lisa managed.

  The guard was called in and Lisa was taken back to her cell.  The heavy bars crashed shut behind her.  Lisa Starling sat down on her mattress and curled up, her arms around her knees, staring at nothing. 

_In for a penny, in for a pound, she had thought the day she entered Susana's home.  But now the question was much deeper.  In for her life…or in for her soul.  _

And just how did Susana intend to get the information she sought from her?  After all, Susana had shoved a red-hot coal in another woman's eye, killed three innocent girls to signal her accomplice to murder four FBI agents, killed Will Graham after carving him up as her father had, and then murdered an additional four on her own, all in this go-round alone.  Torturing Lisa was well within her ability.  Unpleasant images of Susana standing over her with a red-hot poker or a knife tumbled through her mind.  

Then she looked around the tiny cell, and thought of a life wasted within these bars.  Saw herself growing old, forgetting her native tongue.  Only visits from the consular officers to look forward to.  Finally being released, trying to find work in the United States, seeing what an older woman who'd spent twenty years in a foreign prison could do.  She saw herself working as a motel maid, ending her life trudging sheets and towels up and down the stairs as her first cousin had begun hers.       

But Susana had the capability to give her what she wanted – her old life.  No one would know that she had betrayed the FBI.  They would simply not be able to find Susana Alvarez.  And the damnable thing was that even if she said no, Susana would _still get away.  _

Her choice was stark.  Spend the rest of her life in this cell, or help a murderer evade justice.  Her life…or her soul.  

Lisa Starling sat and stared and thought.  No matter how much she thought about it, it did not get a shred easier.  She did not go to dinner when they called the others down.  She simply sat and wondered at what point her principles would cost more than she was willing to pay.  

Footsteps echoed down the run and stopped in front of Lisa's cell.  She looked up and saw Susana, accompanied by two of the guards.  Decent ones, Lisa noted.  Not that one who liked bullying the prisoners.  She was surprised; she would have thought Susana would have avoided any place of confinement.  

The barred door opened with a loud metal crash.  Susana Alvarez Lecter and Lisa Starling looked at each other, separated by nothing but air.  Dimly, Lisa remembered asking Kelly McNeely if she could see Susana's cell.  What a long, strange trip it had been since then.  

"Well?" Susana asked.


	27. End Game

            There were two Starlings in the room.  

                Two Starlings, one alive, one no longer.  One had remained loyal to the FBI, one had left it. One had abandoned the FBI for a husband and a child; one had given up a husband and children for the FBI.  One was Susana Alvarez Lecter's mother; the other, her captive.  

                Lisa Starling lay on the bed.  The guest room of Susana's beach house was far preferable to the cell.  She had a view of the South Atlantic, and the bed was far more comfortable than the mangy mattress she had been expected to sleep on in the cell.  A plastic bag of lactated Ringer's solution dripped nutrition into her wrist through an IV.  A portrait of Clarice Starling hung on the wall of her bedroom.  Lisa was eyeing the oil image.  Clarice was younger in the painting, holding a five-year-old girl on her lap.  Lisa knew exactly who it was.  Her cousin.  Her captor.  Her savior.  

                "You happy now?" Lisa grumbled at the picture.  "I did it.  I sold out the FBI.  Just like you did."  

                But she was doing vastly better now, no arguments about that.  Her first night in the house was marked with a meal far better than anything she'd gotten in jail.  After letting her stuff herself, Susana had finally told her enough, she would make herself sick.  Lisa Starling did not care for shopping the same way her cousin did, but her appetite for food, after the bland and skimpy portions of the jail, was the same as Susana's. She was finishing out an antibiotic cycle Susana had put her on.  Susana Alvarez Lecter, MD, did not believe conditions at Ezeiza were sanitary for a woman who had been stabbed in the stomach.  

                The days passed slowly for Lisa Starling.  Each one seemed much the same as the day before and the day after.  There was little suffering for her; time was not a punishment.  There were painkillers for her stomach wound and other injections Susana gave her, which she did not know the contents of.  In the mornings, Lisa slept in, enjoying the delicious luxury of not having to get up for eight o'clock staff meetings – or seven o'clock cell check.  Around ten she arose and have lunch with her cousin.  The afternoons were spent in idle enjoyment.  At first, Lisa had taken to swimming on Hannibal Lecter's strip of beach just as Susana had on her return.  A few times, Susana took her cousin to Buenos Aires for shopping or dining.  

                Dinner was a casual but elegant affair.  The Alvarez family had always eaten well, and the private cook that had been in the employ of Hannibal Lecter was perfectly happy to come back to his post for his daughter.  Despite that, Susana rarely made her dress up for dinner.  The food was invariably excellent and tasty, but none of it came from _homo sapiens.  _

_                After dinner, the two women would go into the library.  There, Lisa would lie down on a couch and try to relax. The needles Susana slid into her arm were so fine she barely felt them.  She would have difficulty remembering what happened after that.  She would remember the droning sound of her own voice, reading back the dull tests and psychological profiles stored in her memory.  All the while, Hannibal Lecter watched closely from his portrait on the wall.   At times, it made her feel like a tape recorder.  _

                Susana Alvarez Lecter was not a psychiatrist, but she had her father's extensive collection of books on psychology and psychiatry.  Even better, she had his notes.  Combining those with her own knowledge of drugs should be enough.  Not, perhaps, enough to try and convince her to stay, or to explore the depths of Lisa's mind, but enough to get her cousin to cough up the contents of the file.  She found it very interesting, how carefully her cousin had studied her. Lisa was able to predict better than anyone else where she might be.  Lisa had to be given due credit – she'd been able to find Susana tucked away in northern Virginia, where she had thought they would never find her.  

                But she was wiser for the experience.  The FBI was crippled, but would not always be so.  She needed to find herself someplace to hide, someplace like her father had.  She could keep Lisa Starling from tracking her, but she could not fend off the entire FBI.  So once this was done, she would find somewhere else. There were many places in the world.

                The sessions would last for a few hours.   Lisa would repeat back the contents of whatever report or file they were working on for that day; Susana's voice gently prodding and urging.  _What were the lab results, Lisa?  What does that mean?  I see…go on.  _

_                Of those sessions, there was only one that Lisa would remember.  It was perhaps two weeks after she had come to stay at the beach house.  It had started off normally enough, Lisa lying on the couch, hypnotic drugs coursing through her veins.  But instead of reeling off facts and figures and files, she had simply looked over her cousin and frowned like a child. _

                "I don't _want to talk about the file today," she said.   _

                Susana Alvarez Lecter sighed.  "Lisa," she said patiently, "we don't have much time, and you've made such progress."  

                "Not today," Lisa persisted.  "We always talk about what _you want to talk about."  She folded her arms and flipped her hair like a little girl.  "We never get to talk about what __I want.  You're always asking me questions.  I have questions I want to ask you." _

                Susana sighed and raised a hand.  "All right, then.  For a bit.  What question did you have?" 

                "Not just a question," Lisa said.  "A whole discussion."  

                "About what, Lisa?" Susana asked with unaccustomed patience.  

                "Pablo Cayoquin," Lisa said eagerly.  

                "Pablo who?"  Susana gave her cousin a polite but blank look, not recognizing the name pronounced American-style.

                "Cayoquin," Lisa repeated.  "You know." 

                Then it struck Susana who Lisa was talking about, and she took a deep breath.  

                _"Cayoquìn," Susana said slowly, pronouncing it __ca-zho-keen in the Argentine fashion.  "Pablo Cayoquìn." _

                "Cashokeen," agreed a highly stoned Lisa Starling.  

                "_El Desollador.  The Skinner." _

                "Yes," Lisa said.  "What was that like?" 

                "It was…frightening, Lisa," Susana said, and shifted uncomfortably.  "The Skinner was a serial killer, Lisa.  He killed five girls and had me captive in his basement for several days."  Her right hand wandered upward and touched the side of her jaw, where the Skinner's scalpel had sunk into many years ago.  No physical scar remained to mark it.  "That should all be in the FBI's files.  I met the agent assigned to the case."  Her eyes darkened as she remembered.  

                Lisa's tone was high-pitched and little girlish, owing to the cornucopia of drugs Susana had administered.  Her words were those of an educated profiler.  Questions she had longed to ask, questions she had thought of as she pursued her cousin over long dark nights.  It was a curious counterpoint, and might have been amusing in other circumstances.  

                "Yeah, but it doesn't fit the standard pattern," Lisa said.  "Serial killer victims – the ones who survive, at least – almost never turn to violence themselves.  There's never been anyone who went through what you did and became a killer themselves." 

                Susana Alvarez pursed her lips.  "Since when," she asked, "have Lecters ever fit into a standard pattern?" 

                Lisa blinked owlishly.  "I guess so," she said.  "But still.  What was it like? Is that what made you…start?" 

                Susana chuckled.  "No, Lisa, you cannot ascribe my career to a dead janitor who liked to cut off the faces of well-off Argentine girls," she said.  "Please, you do me a disservice.  Nothing _happened to me, I happened.  The Skinner simply…helped me to realize what I was."  _

                "There were bodies that didn't meet the Skinner MO in the file," Lisa said promptly.  "Two of them.  One was dumped in a trash dump like the others, Cristina Vazquez, her name was.  She was stabbed but not skinned.  The other was found in the basement of the house.  Dr. Ramon Hig…Higooo…," she stopped, her head spinning.  

                "Higuara," Susana supplied, her eyes distant and hard.  "Yes, Dr. Higuara."  

                "Were those Skinner killings?" 

                Susana sighed and took several moments before answering.  

                "No," she admitted, "those were me." 

                Despite the drugs, Lisa Starling nodded, as if a long-held theory had finally been proven true.  

                "Why?" 

                "The Skinner forced me to kill Cristina," Susana said, as if they were long-time friends instead of murderer and victim.  "He kidnapped her and told me if I didn't kill her he would kill me.  I had no choice.  I wouldn't have killed her if I had the opportunity to avoid it.  But…it was her or me, and I didn't want to die."  She actually seemed remorseful, alone among her many victims.   

                "What about the doctor?" 

                Susana sighed.  "At the time, I didn't know if Dr. Higuara was the Skinner himself, or perhaps an accomplice," she said.  "I was frightened, I was drugged, I was bleeding.  And Papa wanted me to kill him.  He…he told me to.  He didn't like Dr. Higuara.  I felt I needed to kill him in order to be safe myself."  

                "What about the Skinner himself?" 

                "Oh, I didn't kill him," Susana said mildly.  "Mother did."  

                Lisa Starling, her drugged curiosity sated, fell silent for a few minutes.  She suspected it somehow.  Had Susana done it, it would have been much more painful.  Then she spoke again.

                "What about the FBI agent assigned to those killings?  She never came back from Argentina." 

                Susana chuckled.  "Ah, yes. Belle Fontaine.  Yes, I killed her.  She came to interview me the day she went back to the US.  She spent a few hours with me, and I waited until she went back to the hotel to pack her things.  I followed her to the hotel, overpowered her there, and brought her here, actually.  I put her own handcuffs on her and brought her out to the beach.  That's where I actually killed her, so there wouldn't be any blood.  It was spring, not summer, and there was no one here.  She was…confused, of course, she didn't know what to expect.  Her sixteen-year-old interviewee kidnapping her and killing her, who'd have thought?  But she didn't cry or beg.  She went bravely." 

                Lisa Starling had considered Susana's later killings horrible and brutal.  All of it seemed somehow unimportant now, something that had happened in the dim, dark past.  Now faced with the fact that her cousin had been killing FBI agents ever since they had both been in high school, she found no anger inside her, none of the righteous wrath that had helped her to track her down and bring her to justice.  She was simply curious.  

                "Why did you kill her?" 

                Susana shrugged.  "Really, I suppose you're looking for some deep meaning.  There isn't any, Lisa.  I was forced to kill Cristina Vazquez.  I needed to kill Dr. Higuara.  But from those I learned what I was…that I was my father's daughter."  She chuckled.  "I killed her because I wanted to see what it was like to kill someone on my own.  That's all there is, Lisa, no deep meaning, nothing about my mother's past in the FBI, and certainly nothing to do with you.  It was fun. She got close to me at the wrong time, and I knew they would never suspect me.  That's all."

                Lisa absorbed that and blinked a few times.  "Where…what did you do with the body?" she asked.  

                Susana Alvarez Lecter chuckled and tilted her head, striking the heavily drugged FBI agent as more like her father than ever before.  "That should be obvious," she said calmly.  "Please, haven't you studied me at all? Try and guess, Agent Starling." 

                Lisa Starling closed her eyes and tried to think her way around the drugs.  "Well…you wouldn't have buried her here, that's too obvious.  You might've dumped her offshore, there's no boat here now, but you might've had one then."   

Susana shook her head.  "Good idea, though," she said mildly. 

Lisa looked around and thought.  "You might've dumped it in the trash dump, make people think it was the Skinner, but the timing is wrong…umm…wait…," 

                Then it came to her in a flash.  "Med school!  Your father taught at the med school.  And they have cadavers."  

                Susana Alvarez Lecter chuckled.  "Mostly correct," she said.  

                "What?  What'd I miss?" 

                "You didn't miss anything," Susana said.  "Very good, Agent Starling.  I did indeed dump her at the med school as a med school cadaver, much as when she fell into my hands."   She chuckled.   Lisa pondered for a moment and then blanched.   

                "Wait a minute…," Lisa said.  "_Much _as when she fell into your hands?  Your father said that about Benjamin Raspail." 

                "I wanted to make dinner for my papa," Susana said delicately.  

                Lisa Starling turned away and grimaced.   

                Susana chuckled again.  "Now, Lisa, let's get back to where we were." 

                Other than that one session, the evenings were much the same.  Lisa slowly but surely reported back everything she knew about her cousin.  What she looked for, what vulnerabilities she had identified.  In the part of her mind that was still an FBI agent, she realized what she was doing.  Susana would curb her more rarified tastes or find ways to get them that she could not know.  

                But it hardly mattered anyway.  Susana had already escaped.  She would never fall into the FBI's hands again.  Lisa would not be able to track her down.  Capturing Susana would simply put her in prison, too.  

                On the thirtieth day of Lisa's sojourn in the beach house, Susana woke her up quite early.  After the maid had fortified her with strong coffee, Lisa accompanied her cousin out to the limousine.  The driver held the door courteously for her.  Lisa was quite tired and sipped at the coffee along the way.  It wasn't until they were in Buenos Aires and turned down a driveway to a suspiciously familiar triangle of buildings that Lisa realized where they were going. 

                "Back to prison?" she asked Susana incredulously, her eyes widening.  

                "Just for the day," Susana assured her.  "I have to check you back in, then you go to court in half an hour." 

                "You promised," Lisa quavered, staring at her cousin with a look of betrayal on her face.  

                Susana sighed.  "Lisa, you want to be an FBI agent when you get back, don't you?"  

                "Yes," Lisa said suspiciously. 

                "Well, then, I can't exactly drive you to court in my limousine with plates registered to me, now can I?" Susana asked, an eyebrow arching.  "I _do _know how you feel, cousin.  They're going to get you changed, cuff you and put you on the van.  Play along, Lisa, this has to look right."  

                Lisa Starling's heart raced at the thought.  She could understand, cerebrally, what Susana was talking about.  As far as the authorities knew, she was in prison.  She had to go to court as a prisoner would.  But emotionally, she rebelled at the thought of going back.  She'd done her part, dammit, she'd given her cousin everything she needed to stay free for the rest of her life.  The thought of even entering the prison made her sick.  

                "Then what?" she demanded. 

                Susana shrugged.  "They'll take you to court and you wait your turn.  Your lawyer stands up and says the evidence hasn't been received.  The police admit that it's missing.  They dismiss the charges, then you come back here for out-processing, and I'll pick you up.  Probably this afternoon.  Then you go to the airport.  I have a first-class ticket for you, from the airport to Miami, then Miami to Dulles."  

                The limousine pulled up to the women's section.  There were a few guards waiting outside that Lisa recognized.  They approached the limo as the driver opened the door.  She made no move to get out.  

                "Susana," Lisa said, her voice shaky.  "You…you better…I mean, come on, I held up my end of the bargain." 

                Susana seemed disappointed.  "Lisa," Susana said delicately, "I am as well.  But if you want to go back to the FBI after this is over, you cannot march into the courtroom arm in arm with the only woman on the FBI's Ten Most-Wanted List.  Remember, I've been in jail myself.  I am not betraying you.  This is just a little bit of dumbshow.  Think of it as going undercover.  Now you've got to move, Lisa, the court van will be departing soon."  

                Lisa Starling gripped the leather upholstery of the limousine and looked out at the guards.  One of them leaned in.  Starling recognized her; the only one who spoke any English.  

                "Starleeng," the guard said, "come on.  You have court.  We need to get you changed and on the van.  Your lawyer say they dismiss charges.  Let's go." 

                Susana Alvarez Lecter rattled off a few Spanish sentences Lisa didn't even try to understand.  Then she turned to Lisa and put a hand on her shoulder.  

                "Lisa," Susana said calmly, "I know I've done some things you don't like.  And yes, my morals are slightly different from most.  But when have you ever known me to lie?" 

                "You haven't," Lisa said stubbornly, not wanting to believe.  

                "I'm not betraying you, Lisa," Susana said.  "You'll just have to act the part for less than a day.  They'll drive you to court and then back to process you out.  You'll be free by this afternoon and on a plane home by this evening.  I give you my word, Lisa." 

                Slowly, unwillingly, Lisa Starling stepped out of the limousine and into the arms of the prison guards.  Her eyes remained locked on her cousin.  For her part, Susana kept eye contact easily.  But not even that was a comfort for Lisa.  She had no doubt that if Susana Alvarez Lecter wanted to, she could lie with the best of them.  

                The guards brought her back into the prison and down to a small room.  There, they made her change back into a jail uniform.  Sour acid roiled in Lisa's stomach as she put the shabby uniform back on.  Anger and fear coated her tongue with copper as they cuffed her wrists and led her back outside.  

                "Don't worry, Starleeng," the one guard said.  "You go to court today.  You know the deal." 

                Lisa Starling turned and eyed the guard with complete distrust.  "And what happens if I get out?" she asked.  Her voice was full of turmoil and anger. 

                The guard displayed open palms.  "Not my call, Starleeng, you know that.  Judge says you get out, you come back here, we do the papers, you get out."  

                Once she was shackled, there wasn't much she could do other than shuffle along with the guards out to the van.  The van was already loaded with prisoners like herself.  All in chains, all going to court.  The atmosphere in the van was tense, as it always was.  Court was a welcome break from the mindless tedium of prison.  Some prisoners expected to be freed and seemed jubilant.  Some prisoners expected to be sentenced and were nervous.  And there was Lisa Starling, acid eating a hole through her gut, wondering if she had just been colossally suckered.  

                It made perfect sense, goddammit.  Susana had what she needed.  The smartest tactical move on Susana's part would be to return her here, send her back with a fish story about being free.  Now that she was here, there would be no getting her out.  And as she pondered, she remembered what she had read in those old, long ago files:  that many years ago, a Starling had approached a Lecter with a bogus offer.  

                So she barely spoke at the courthouse when the guards brought them into the holding tank.  She stared at the wall and waited.  She sweated in the tattered jail uniform. Eventually, they called her name and brought her into the courtroom.   Having the shackles off was definitely a plus.  The guard brought Lisa Starling through the courtroom to where her attorney and the translator waited.  

                In the end, it was very simple.  After doing the introductory parts, her attorney stated that he had not received the evidence he had asked for.  The prosecutor, a man with a florid walrus mustache, admitted with some embarrassment that yes, the evidence was missing, and the police had not been able to find it.  Her attorney then respectfully asked the judge to dismiss the charges against Lisa Starling, pointing out that without access to that evidence, Lisa Starling would not get a fair trial.  

                The judge then said the words that Susana had promised he would.  

                "The charges of murder against Lisa Starling are dismissed.  The prisoner is to be released."  

                Yet Lisa wasn't convinced yet.  After all, they brought her back to the holding pen.  Calmly, the guard told her that they had a few things to do at the jail, and that Lisa would be free once it was done.  But she offered Lisa good-faith congratulations.  Lisa had to wonder what came next, though.  She remembered her cousin's words all too well.  

                _You know, the day the judge told the FBI to turn over the evidence or he would free me, I actually thought there might be some justice for me after all. So I went back to my cell and waited. And then, a few days later, McNeely came and told me I had to go to court.  I had no idea for what. Then in I went, and I was arraigned on charges of murdering Ardelia Mapp and attempted murder on you. And they brought me back to my cell and I laid down on my bunk and stared at the wall.  And all I could think was that they were going to dismiss the charges that I had done, and kill me for something I hadn't._

She wanted to believe her cousin.  She wanted to believe that she was going to go home.  But part of her kept reminding her that Susana liked to play games.  Like her father before her, Susana Alvarez Lecter liked her fun.  This might be part of that.  

                So she closed her eyes and readied herself.  It would be simple, starting so innocently.  A guard would stick her head in and yell _Starleeng!  _Back into the courtroom she would go, only to be told that she was under arrest for the murder of…whoever else Susana might have killed while she was down here.  Sorry, Lisa, back to jail you go.  Nice try.  

                Finally, they loaded up the prisoners again for the ride back to the jail.  Lisa still wasn't convinced.  A few prisoners were jubilant.  Others were completely crestfallen, staring out the windows of the van.  Lisa wondered if they had gotten life sentences or what.  Still, they had one thing on her.  They knew what was going to happen.  

                At the jail, the prisoners were trooped back in.  One of the guards consulted a list and then came up to Lisa.  

                "Starleeng!" she said.  Lisa's fists clenched. 

                "Yes?" Lisa asked in English.  No use pretending to speak Spanish.  

                "_Vaya conmigo," _the guard said.  

                Oh boy.  Here it was.  Designed to crush her hopes, no doubt.  Lead her on, and then do the deed here.  The guard took her by the arm and walked her down the hallway.  Lisa cast a single look back at the other prisoners.  They watched her with a hangdog look as she went.  None of the others was taken along with her.  

                "¿_Adonde vamos?" _Lisa asked in her clumsy Spanish.  

                "_Lanzamiento," _the guard said.     

                "Um…_¿sabe usted come se dice en inglès?" _Lisa asked.  

                The guard did not.  Lisa's stomach did a dipsy doodle.  _Susana, you sadistic bitch, _she thought, _just show up and do it already._

So what was _Lanzamiento _anyway?  Re-arrest?  Booking? Backstabbing Cousin Central?  When was Susana going to drop the bomb?  Had this all been a colossal game?  Just a bit of exceptionally cruel sadism on Susana's part? What would she think when they brought her back up to her cell?  She could see herself ten years from now, hoping to be put in an American prison, staring out her cell window and wondering what Susana was doing.  Yeah, that would go over great.

                Ahead was a sign reading _Lanzamiento.  _Lisa tensed when she saw it.  The guard brought Lisa in and removed the shackles.  She brought Lisa to a small room and shut her inside. A few minutes later she reappeared with a paper bag.  Inside it were the clothes that Lisa had worn when she was dropped off in the morning, as well as a manila envelope containing her passport, her FBI identification, and her holster.  No gun; that had disappeared along with the rest of the evidence.  Lisa tensed.  Oh, this was a real sadistic game of Susana's.  Dragging it out to the last minute.  Letting her put on free-world clothes.  Nice touch.  What would happen next?  Would a squad of cops be waiting to jump her when she got out, just like the operation that Lisa had masterminded to take Susana down?  

                Once Lisa had changed, the guard took the uniform back and brought her over to a desk.  There, she gave Lisa a few forms and pointed out where she should sign.  After that, she handed Lisa a few bills.  Peso notes, Lisa thought, staring at them and wondering what the hell was going on.  Well, she could tell.  But what came next?  

                After that, Lisa was walked down the hall.  There were two glass booths, made of bulletproof glass.  Another guard occupied one.  The other was empty.  It led to outside.  _Outside.  _For just a moment, a ray of hope shone through Lisa Starling's embittered and terrified soul.  The guard in the first booth indicated for Lisa to enter the second booth.  

                When she did, the heavy door crashed shut behind her.  The door ahead buzzed.  Lisa stood stoically, for a moment.  The guard rapped on the glass, annoyed.  

                "_Vaya, _Starleeng," he said.  "_Sos lanzada."  _The guard who had brought her here said something to the guard in the booth.  Then the guard in the booth turned back to her.  

                "Go, Starling," he said in English, having realized she didn't understand Spanish.  "You…_lanzada.  _Released.  Go home."

                "Released?" Lisa said, not wanting to have her hopes dashed.  

                "You free.  Be good, don't come back," the guard said, and waved.  "Bye." 

                Lisa Starling pushed open the door and walked down the steps.  On the main access road to the prison, a limousine sat waiting.  Lisa swallowed, gathered her courage, and approached it.  When she came near, the driver got out, bowed, and opened the rear door.  She entered the calm world of luxuriant leather seating and saw Susana seated in the back with no surprise.  The door closed behind her.  

                "Hello, Lisa," Susana said calmly. "How was it?"  

                For a moment, Lisa shook with rage.  When was she going to be free?  When was enough?  

                "That…was _torture," _Lisa said vehemently.  

                Susana raised an eyebrow in surprise.  "Torture?  How so?  I know sitting around in shackles is terribly boring, but really, Lisa.  You're free.  And free you shall remain, so long as I do.  Just as I promised you."  

                "Yeah," Lisa said acidly.  "I thought you were going to leave me there, though."  

                Susana Alvarez Lecter chuckled.  "Betray you? Have you arraigned for crimes you didn't commit, just to keep you where you were?"  

                "Something like that," Lisa said tightly.  

                "Well, Lisa," Susana said lightly, "I guess I'm just more honest than the FBI." 

                "So now what?" Lisa demanded.  

                The limousine pulled out.  Susana reached down for an ice bucket and removed a bottle of champagne.  She poured two glasses and offered Lisa one.  Lisa accepted it, even though she hadn't eaten all day and the roiling acid in her stomach would probably object.  It tasted great, she thought, and she drank to her freedom.

                "We get you to the airport," Susana said calmly.  "I'd hoped we could have dinner, but that's not an option.  It took longer than I expected.  I suppose they went by alphabetical order for court, did they not?  I always went first, being an Alvarez.  I should have thought of that.  But no matter, we'll get you to the airport and on your way.  You have a life to get back to, you know."  

                They were both quiet on the drive to the airport.  Lisa found it a hideous coincidence that the airport and the prison were both named Ezeiza.  But here she was.  The driver slid smoothly up to the departure gate nearest the airline Lisa would be flying on. Just as many years ago he had dropped off Susana Alvarez Lecter on her first trip to the United States, he scurried around and got Lisa's bag out of the trunk.  Susana disembarked from the limousine as well and beckoned for a skycap to take charge of Lisa's bag.  

                "This is it, Lisa," Susana said calmly.  "You're free now.  You know the drill.  Go back to America, and continue your career.  Catch whatever criminals you want.  So long as you leave me in peace, I'll leave you in peace."  

                Lisa Starling sighed.  "What if they find out?  I mean, if they ever find out that you did this, that you got me out of jail…" 

                Susana shrugged.  "I gave you your freedom, Lisa.  I can't guarantee everything.  But they won't.  They may write you up for coming to Argentina, I don't know.  But they need profilers, and that's what you are.  They'll just take you back after a little tongue-lashing.  After that, it's up to you."  

                "What about you?" Lisa asked.  "What are you going to do?" 

                Susana Alvarez Lecter looked slyly at her cousin.  

                "I'm not asking to track you," Lisa said softly.  "I'm asking as your cousin, not an FBI agent.  Heck, I don't know if I'm even going to be one when I get back."  

                Her cousin considered for a moment.  "Leave here," Susana said.  "I'm an Argentine girl and always will be, but the FBI knows I'm here, and I'd be better off somewhere else, anyway.  I'll keep out of the US, I can promise you that, and I won't be killing anyone any more, unless I am forced to."  

                "Am I ever going to see you again?" Lisa Starling asked her only living relative. 

                "Probably not," Susana allowed.  "It would be very bad for your career, plus too risky for me.  Let's be honest, Lisa…neither one of us wants to end up back in prison.  And I do have to be firm on that."  

                There was a bittersweet melancholy among both women.  After everything that had happened, everything that each had suffered and won, it came down to simply that:  a quiet goodbye at the curbside of a busy airport.  

                "Should you need to contact me, Lisa, place an ad on the agony column of the _International Herald-Tribune's _website," Susana said.  "Address it to A. A. Aaron, so it will be first, and sign it Hannah.  The FBI may know about it, but it'll be very old and in Papa's file, not mine.  Well, that, and every few months some crank posts an article claiming to be from Mother to Papa or vice versa, so it'll get lost in the noise."  She smiled ruefully.   "But I'll know yours," she said.  

                "So…that's it?" Lisa asked.    

                Susana nodded.  She extended her hand out to Lisa.  Without any feeling of irony or strangeness, Lisa Starling took it.  It seemed quite normal somehow.  Fleetingly, she thought back to a few months before, and what she would have said then if anyone had ever told her she would shake Susana Alvarez Lecter's hand.  Yet here she was, shaking hands with the woman who had killed her colleagues.  And she felt zero guilt over it.  

                "Enjoy your freedom, Agent Starling," Susana said.  

                Lisa smiled and turned to enter the airport.  Back to America, back to the FBI, back to her life.  But there was one thing she wanted to say before she left.  Before she boarded the plane that would take her back to where she belonged.

                "Thank you," she said.  "Enjoy _your _freedom, Dr. Lecter." 


	28. New Blood

                _Author's note:  Here we are, the real, honest-to-God end of the story.  But there's one thing more – remember way back when, Chapter 16?  When everyone was so grossed out from the Infamous Tongue Scene™?  Well, something else was occurring then…._

_                Also, thanks to Screaming Lamb for helping with French names._

Lisa Starling got off the plane and headed quickly for the baggage claim.  She was tired.  It had been a very long flight.  Hours trapped in a 747.  But finally, she was here.  A few things remained.  She had to get her bag, then pick up a cab.  Then…well, then she knew what she had to do.  

                It had been seven months since she had flown back from Argentina.  The FBI had accepted her back without much issue, as Susana had thought they would.  Behavioral Sciences needed profilers, and the feeling of the FBI was that two months in a foreign prison was itself harsh enough punishment for Lisa's having disobeyed her boss's direction not to go to Argentina.  Other than a verbal reprimand, she received no real punishment.  And there were still killers out there to track, and great need of the skills possessed by Lisa Starling.  She had gone back to her life much as she had left it.  

                The FBI had rebuilt its Behavioral Sciences department as best it could.  No, nothing could quite put back what Susana Alvarez Lecter had set asunder, but the people working there now were just as determined, just as smart.  And the experience would come in time.  In the meanwhile, Lisa Starling had been promoted as well.  Five months after Lisa had been released from an Argentine prison, John Morton had died in his bed of a heart attack.  His death had been quite peaceful, and Behavioral Sciences was glad in a morbid way for that.  A death not by violence.  This was appreciated by the beleaguered veterans of Behavioral Sciences, who had seen their department almost ripped apart by Susana's private war.  

                But for all that, they had proved eminently incapable of tracking down the perpetrator.  Susana Alvarez Lecter had vanished like smoke.  The current belief among the FBI was that Susana was holed up somewhere in South America, paying off the government of some country to hide her.  Argentina vociferously denied that the citizen the US wanted most was within its borders, and those in the Buenos Aires social circles that Alonso and Maria Alvarez had moved in knew nothing of their daughter.  Likewise, Paraguay, Uruguay, and Brazil turned up nothing.  The search went on, but nothing had come of it.  

                They were trying, of course, but even Deputy Chief Lisa Starling was unable to come up with much.  Her promotion had pleased her.  Privately, the deputy chief found it ironic that she now occupied the position that Peter DeGraff had once occupied.  Even better, she was a young woman, and the man currently occupying the position of Section Chief would be retiring in the next five years.  Lisa was patient; she could wait.  Better to take the opportunity to serve as deputy chief, learn how to run the department as well as profile.  When it came time, she would run Behavioral Sciences for the next twenty years, so long as she kept her nose clean.  

                Occasionally Lisa Starling would wonder what would happen if Susana Alvarez Lecter was ever caught.  Memories of a tiny Argentine prison cell tormented her.  But so far, things were calm, and her cousin had made things easy for her.  There was no trace of Susana Alvarez Lecter to be found.  Just as Hannibal Lecter had disappeared into the night after flying to Rio so many years ago, Susana had disappeared from her Buenos Aires mansion.  

                Tracking the Lecter fortune was right out.  Hannibal Lecter had kept his money in a complex net of false identities and foreign banks.  His daughter had made some adjustments to that web, and her vast personal fortune remained untraceable and incalculable.  Careful sifting had turned up the Argentine investments that Dr. Lecter _pere and __fils had purchased, but Deputy Chief Starling could have told anyone who asked about that.  Dr. Lecter had made those investments to quietly discourage the Argentine government from handing him over should he be caught, not to provide for his family or to hide his money.  It was no more than a drop in the bucket, a red herring, and finding it meant nothing.  But she let her co-workers run over it, excited, missing the forest of the Lecter fortune for the single tree they could find.  _

                A week ago, an unsigned letter had arrived at Lisa's Alexandria condominium.  It had contained only a telephone number to call.  When Lisa had called it, she had reached a DC travel agent who informed her cheerily that she had a flight reservation and hotel reservation in Lisa's name.  So Lisa had taken some leave and gone forth.  

                To here. Bern, Switzerland.  Switzerland had always been neutral ground.  Somehow, that was fitting.  Here, on this neutral patch of ground, she could quietly meet and deal with her cousin.  This had to be big.  Susana had told her cousin she would likely never see her again at the Buenos Aires airport, and she wouldn't have broken that idly.  Was she in danger of capture?  Lisa's private nightmare was some dumb cop getting lucky and arresting Susana.  Her freedom hung in the balance.  If Susana was caught again, the world would become a much more miserable place for Lisa Starling.  

                But so far, things had been calm.  Lisa cleared Customs after promising not to seek employment in Switzerland, just in case the small, neutral state decided to set up its own Behavioral Sciences department and wanted profilers.  A cab brought her to her hotel, which in turn brought her to the suite in her name.  Paid in advance, the concierge told her, with filet mignon from room service added in to boot.  After the long flight and airline food, it was most welcome.  

                At the hotel, Lisa Starling sat and waited, not sure what she was waiting for.  The time difference between Virginia and Switzerland was throwing her off.  So she went to sleep extremely early, for her.  

                In the morning, she awoke to the sound of the telephone burring.  It took a moment or two before she realized what it was.    She grabbed the phone.  

                "Starling," she said, slurry with sleep. 

                A man's voice spoke in accented English.  That surprised her.  

                "Starling, hello.  Someone you know wants to speak with you.  There will be a limousine at the lobby in twenty minutes.  Be on it, please." 

                "What is this about?" Lisa asked.  Her only reply was the dull moan of the dial tone.  

                Her curiosity was still not sated, so Lisa Starling showered and dressed.  Walking down to the lobby, she noted several bellhops ready to assist her however she might need.  She ignored them and continued outside.  Parked outside the hotel was indeed a black stretch limousine.  The driver stood by the door expectantly.  In one hand he held a small sign reading STARLING lettered neatly in black marker.  She approached him expectantly and cleared her throat. 

                "I'm Starling," she said. 

                "Ah, yes.  Please do get in, ma'am," the driver said calmly.  His voice was strongly accented.  

                Stepping into the limousine reminded her strongly of her last day in Argentina.  Not for the first time, she wondered what the hell Susana had planned.  Was this another stab in the back?  No, that made hardly any sense.  No reason to fly Lisa across the Atlantic to bust her.   If that was Susana's goal, she could simply make a phone call from anywhere in the world and Lisa would be behind bars.  But that made no sense; Lisa had left her be.

                The limousine purred into traffic smoothly, cutting across the road with great skill.  

                "Do you know where we're going?"  Lisa asked. 

                "A clinic," the driver answered.  "It won't take long."  

                That made her wonder.  Was Susana sick? Dying? It made hardly any sense. The driver wouldn't know much.   She fidgeted in the luxurious back seat of the limo, waiting to get some answers.  

                Perhaps twenty minutes later, the limousine pulled up in front of a gleaming white building three stories high.  Lisa Starling eyed it carefully.  The driver scurried around, obedient servitor, to open her door.  He made no move to accompany her into the clinic.  Carefully, with some misgivings probing her gut, Lisa entered.  It was a private clinic, pretty ritzy.  Nurses in starched white uniforms pushed patients in silk dressing gowns here and there.  An order of calm reigned over the place, unlike the chaotic large hospitals Lisa had known.  

                Lisa approached the desk and suddenly realized that she had no idea what name Susana was currently using.  The receptionist behind the desk, a pretty young girl with severely plucked eyebrows, smiled helpfully as Lisa approached.  She said something in a language Lisa didn't understand.  

                "Excuse me," Lisa said quietly.  "Do you speak English?" 

                "Yes, ma'am, I do," the receptionist said. "May I help you?" 

                "I'm here to see…," Lisa thought.  Couldn't be that hard.  "Susana Alvarez?"  

                The receptionist consulted her computer and arched a brow in puzzlement.  "I'm sorry," she said, her Swiss accent strong.  "I have no one by that name here.  One moment_…there is a Suzanne Altier in room 340, is that who you mean?"  _

                "I'm not sure," Lisa said, realizing how dumb she must look.  "I'm here for my cousin, I just flew in from the States, and I'm kind of jet-lagged.  I'm sorry."  

                "_Ach so!  Yes, Dr. Altier told us you would be coming.  Room 340, please.  The lift is just down the hall to your right."  _

                Lisa entered the elevator, even more puzzled now than before.  Susana was in the hospital?  Were things this bad?  The idea occurred to her that Susana might be dying.  Perhaps she was going to let Lisa go free with her death, telling her where the evidence against her was.  Lisa found her palms were trembling.  

                On the third floor, the nurse at the charge desk was helpful in pointing her down a secluded hall to room 340.  Outside the room stood a large, bald man.  He was trim and neat in his turtleneck and blazer.  He stood when she came close and spoke accented English.  

                "You are Lisa Starling?" he asked calmly. 

                "Yes, I am," she said.  "What's all this about, anyway?" 

                "You'll see," he said.  "I'm not authorized to discuss it.  Turn around, please, and raise your arms."  

                When Lisa complied, he frisked her calmly and competently.  Lisa was slightly shocked to have a strange man running his hands down her thighs, but she knew he was just doing his job.  Besides, her curiosity was piqued.  Why Susana might want a bodyguard was quite simple.  She was still on the FBI's Ten Most-Wanted List, after all.  But what did all this mean?  What was it about?  

                "You may go in," the bodyguard said calmly.  Lisa opened the blindingly white door and entered.   The room was quite large and private.  For a hospital room, it was exceptional.  Susana Alvarez Lecter lay in the bed, looking calmly at Lisa.  She had adjusted the bed's tilt control so that she was sitting up.  She looked slightly wan, but content.  

                "Well, you got here safe," Susana observed.  "Thank you for coming, Lisa."  

                "Hello, Susana," Lisa said softly.  "What…why are you in the hospital? Are you sick?" 

                "Sick? No, no, the last time I was sick was actually back in Virginia," Susana said calmly.  "I'm just fine.  Tired, though."  

                Lisa Starling blinked.  "So…what?" 

                The door opened then.  A nurse came in, smiling professionally.  She pushed along a small metal cart with a plastic bed mounted atop it.   She spoke calm Swiss German to Susana, who answered in French.  She excused herself past Lisa and rolled the cart up to Susana's bedside.  From it, she carefully lifted a swaddled bundle.  She placed the bundle in Susana's arms, said something else, and then departed quickly.  

                Calmly, Susana undid the blanket swaddling the infant and removed the small cotton cap that had been on his head.  The infant stirred in his mother's grasp.  Susana held him up for Lisa's inspection.  

                "Him," she said calmly.  "Guillaume Hannibal.  Nine pounds, one ounce.  Born yesterday, while you were in flight.  Quite tiring, Lisa.  If you have a child, go for the C-section, it's much more civilized.  I was ready to give myself one, but they took away my OR privileges and kept sharp things away from me."  

                Lisa Starling's jaw dropped.  She stared at the gurgling newborn, then back up to Susana.  Then her mind did a quick subtraction, and she stared blankly and shook her head.  

                "You were…you were pregnant?" 

                Susana Alvarez Lecter shifted her infant son.  "He's here, isn't he?" 

                "But through…through all that?" Lisa's knees suddenly felt weak.  She saw a chair behind her and sat down hard.  It suddenly dawned on her that this tiny infant was fatherless, and fatherless because of her.  

                "Enough of it," Susana said calmly.  She arranged her infant to nurse.  This appeared to get the newborn's interest, and he waved his arms and legs in excitement.  

                "My God," Lisa said.   Her eyes were blank.  "I killed his father, Jesus Christ, I didn't know…the poor little guy, he's going to hate me…if I'd known, I wouldn't have killed him."  

                Lisa stared at the floor.  Poor kid, oh God, he was going to grow up knowing that she killed his father.  If only she'd known.  Maybe Taylor hadn't known himself.   Had Susana told him?  She forced herself to meet her cousin's eyes, shame and guilt roiling her.  

                "Ah Christ, I'm sorry, Susana.  I didn't know he was…you were..," 

                Susana Alvarez looked at Lisa with an expression of mild curiosity and amusemement on her face.  

                "I think your mea culpa is mistaken," she said.   "Guillaume won't mind."  

                "_I will," Lisa said.  "Jeez, I can't believe it, I didn't know he was his father."  _

                "You mean Luke?"  Susana queried, a small, sidewise smile on her face. 

                "Yes! I mean Luke Taylor.  The guy I shot down in Argentina."  

                "He's not Luke's," Susana Alvarez Lecter said simply. 

                Lisa Starling gawped at her cousin.  For several moments, she stared blankly at the woman in the bed.    

                "Then…who?" 

                "He's named after his father," Susana said tactfully.  

                "Guillaume?" It took Lisa Starling a moment to recall high-school French class to remember what the English equivalent of the name was.  Guillaume was…wait…_Oh DEAR GOD! _

_                If Lisa had been surprised to discover Luke was not the infant's father, discovering who was shocked her speechless for several minutes.  Her face went completely slack.  Her knees jellied.  Fortunately, she was already sitting, otherwise she'd have spilled to the floor.  She stared at Susana cradling her infant in her arms, Susana sitting there perfectly calmly.  _

                "Will Graham?" Lisa whispered strengthlessly.  

                Susana nodded. 

                "But…how?  And why?"  

                "How is easy," Susana said.  "It was after I'd cut on him, when Luke was taking you into the bedroom. Luke didn't need to see.  Neither did you.  I must admit, Lisa, I cheated."  She hung her head in mock shame and then grinned.  "I brought along some drugs with me, and an electrical stimulator.  Romance is all well and good, but when you're in a rush, all you need are the right drugs, the type that act on the lower spinal cord, and then you stimulate the prostate."  She snapped her fingers.  "Any age concerns I had were gone.  He was old and dying, yes, but he performed.  I took a sample afterwards, just in case, but the first one took."  She smiled beatifically down at her infant.  

                Lisa Starling had comprehended perhaps one word in ten.  "You…and Graham…," she gasped.  "And…drugs?  Electricity?" 

                "Yes, drugs and electricity," Susana said calmly.  "Drugs to get things rolling and the stimulator to finish the job.  I don't think you want to know the gory details, Lisa, so I'll spare you that."  

                "Why?" Lisa gasped.  

                "Why?  That should be simple. In prison, after you told me that Mother had died, I knew I was alone.  That was the worst part.  Not being in lockdown, although I hated that, and not even knowing they were going to try and kill me by fair means or foul.  Being alone, knowing nobody cared, that was the worst.  Then, in Toronto, I had everything I could possibly want, and I was still alone.  It didn't take me long to realize that Luke wasn't going to be the one.  He was great for the time being, and he helped me accomplish…what I needed to do.  But not for life, Lisa, I couldn't stand all the religion.  I'm as picky on that as I am everything else, you know.  I don't know if there is someone out there for me, Lisa, and in the meantime I can amuse myself with boy-toys to my heart's content.  But I didn't want to be alone, and so I came to the idea of this."  

                Lisa shook her head, panting.  She was feeling slightly more herself, able to process the monstrous shock.  

                "But why Graham?" she asked.  

                Susana chuckled.  "Once I'd decided I wanted a child, the only thing was to find a father," she said.  "More like a donor, I suppose.  But I have _very high standards, you know.  Graham caught Papa.  Papa told me he and Graham were just alike.  That's about as high a recommendation as one can get.   It's not like you could've done much on that score for me.  So…I picked him."_

                "But then…why…you killed him," Lisa stammered.  

                Susana shrugged.  "A challenge, but not insurmountable," she said indifferently.   "Obviously."  

                Lisa Starling stared blankly and shook her head.  "I can't believe it," she said. 

                Susana shrugged again.  "The proof is here, before your eyes," she sighed.  "What more do you need?"  

                "And you brought me here…to see this?" 

                "To see my son, yes," Susana replied.  "Perhaps it might please you to know that I'm happy.  Barring that, it might satisfy you to know that not everything of Will is gone.  That's really all I wanted, Lisa."  

                It would remain very difficult for Lisa Starling to grasp that Susana had done this.  That Susana was a mother.  In some ways, it was as hard for her to think of Susana as a mother as it had been for Will Graham to think of Hannibal Lecter as a father.  Even on the plane, heading back to the States, she could only shake her head and laugh.  

                But the kid was cute.  She slipped the picture out of her pocket and looked at it.  His eyes looked blue.  Would they stay the bright blue of Will Graham's eyes, or would they change to maroon, like the Lecters?   Staring at the picture, looking at her murderous cousin's child, she noticed something funny.  It took her a moment to place it.  The infant had six fingers on his left hand.  How odd, she thought.  Even that, passed down through two generations now.  

                Would he be a killer, too?  Would he grow and relish in bloodshed and mayhem?  Before him had come Hannibal Lecter, and Susana Alvarez Lecter.  And now, Guillaume Hannibal Lecter.  She remembered Will's last words.  _Those who come after_.   He had gotten to be one of those who came after.  Now, his son – the son he had been forced to sire on Susana Alvarez Lecter, his only biological son – his son came after him.  

                …

                A year passes quickly with an infant in the house.  

                It is said that the Argentines are a nation of Italians who speak Spanish and think they are British living in Paris.  Much more European in outlook than other South American countries, Argentina   Buenos Aires had always considered itself to be the Paris of South America. But the real thing suited her a great deal.  

                The FBI continued to hunt Susana Alvarez Lecter half-heartedly in South America.  And that was just fine with the woman who moved into a palatial estate in the 16th _arrondissement, _regarded as the neighborhood for the wealthy.  The 7th _arrondissement _is considered to be more exclusive, but it is also where many international residents live, and Dr. Suzanne Arsenault Lesage thought it better not to take chances.  Besides, there was nothing at all that her home lacked.  Equipped with the very best papers money could buy, Dr. Lesage has obtained a post at a private Paris clinic, very fancy, not unlike the one in Switzerland in which she gave birth to Guillaume H. Lesage.  A live-in nanny assures that Guillaume is cared for while she is at work.  

                Dr. Lesage has found a peace here in Paris.  Part of this is simply being kept busy – between her job and her son she has little time to indulge her darker tastes.  Part of this, also, is the glamour and allure of Paris.  Here, she can indulge her tastes for couture and fashion, for the fashion houses of Paris outshine everywhere else.  Here, the French authorities refused for twenty years to extradite Ira Einhorn.  This is a comfort to the doctor. 

                Dr. Lesage occasionally reads the American press, and appears to have some interest in the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit.  In a scrapbook at home she has clipped out some newspaper articles about hunts for serial killers that the unit has successfully pulled off.  In each one, the name of Deputy Chief Lisa Starling is mentioned.  This hobby is not known to her co-workers and friends in Paris; it is conducted quietly in the privacy of her own home.  

                For his part, Guillaume Lesage begins the journey from infant to toddler in his own right.  He learns that his hands – both five- and six-fingered are his own.  He learns to crawl and then to walk.  Guillaume Lesage's eyes remain bright blue, however, not the maroon of his mother and grandfather.  As he tackles the weighty problems of blocks and his sorter, his small brow wrinkles and he resembles Will Graham poring over Francis Dolarhyde's file many years before his birth.  

                Predators make good parents; this is a surprising but true fact of the natural world.  A lioness is all teeth and claws to her prey, ripping mercilessly into them in order to consume their bodies.  Jackals raise their young communally and ensure that the pups eat first.  So it was with Hannibal Lecter years ago in Argentina, and so it is now with Suzanne Arsenault Lesage in France.  She makes as much time for her son as her career will allow.  It is not a surprise that she has killed no one since arriving here.  

                And today is indeed a special day.  Guillaume Hannibal Lesage is one year old today.  A party is held in the vast back yard of the Lesage mansion, and the birthday boy is seated in his high chair at the head of a large table.  Friends from his play group and co-workers of his mother have come to celebrate his birthday.  His nanny on one side and his mother on the other, he seems to enjoy all the attention, even if he does not understand it.  

                The doorbell rings, and Dr. Lesage rises to answer it.  The nanny is feeding the young boy a piece of his birthday cake.  Dr. Lesage strides confidently through the hall to her front door and opens it.  There, she stops and stares, her face blank with surprise at the woman standing on her doorstep.  A blonde woman, her own height, her arms laden down with a wrapped gift for the boy.  

                Dr. Lesage takes a deep breath and notes that the woman is alone.  There are no tell-tale vans parked along the street of expensive homes, nor the large rear-wheel sedans favored by American police, nor the smaller ones the French authorities prefer.  But still…despite the hidden identity, despite her quiet, pleasant life, despite her lack of murdering those people she does not care for…she has been tracked down.  Her heart begins to pound.    Her eyes meet those of the other woman's.  Can this be?  After everything she has set up, can this be? Have her carefully laid plans been set at naught?  Has Lisa found some way to slip the noose Dr. Lesage has laid for her should she ever be captured again?

                "Gotcha," Deputy Chief Lisa Starling says, and grins.  "Can I come in?  It's his birthday, after all."

                FIN   

                _Author's notes: _

_                Well, here we are…the longest thing I've ever written.  I didn't plan it that way; it just sort of happened.  Originally, it was just going to be Susana meets Luke and that was it.  Then…well…the story just wasn't over.  But it is now.  _

_                I'd planned this to be Susana's last go-round.  But whether or not that will happen is questionable:  she's been a fun character to write.  (That and Saavik and Samantha Bridges started campaigning for her salvation when I mentioned ending the series here.)  But it's been quite a trip, and I never thought it would go this long.  But…there was just more story to tell._

_                Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed and stuck it out this long.  _


End file.
